


Child of Shadows

by Harp_of_Gold



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Depression, Eöl is a creep, Gaslighting, Gen, Huan is a good boy, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Past/Imagined Dubious Consent, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rats, Re-embodied elves, Recovery, Service Animals, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Wilderness Living
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harp_of_Gold/pseuds/Harp_of_Gold
Summary: Maeglin finds no peace in the Halls of Mandos, so Námo sends him to seek it in the living world. He's broken and haunted by the past, and he never wants to see his father again. Celegorm knows what it is to live with the shadows of the dark things he's done. Aredhel was always dear to him. He hopes taking her son under his wing will be good for them both.
Relationships: Aredhel & Maeglin | Lómion, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maeglin | Lómion, Eöl & Maeglin | Lómion, background Celegorm/Oromë, unrequited Maeglin/Idril
Comments: 116
Kudos: 234





	1. Leaving the Halls

**Author's Note:**

> This story is in the same continuity as [Build Up A New Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806742/chapters/42012377), but also can be read as a stand-alone.

“I hate you! I hate you so much!” His mother was gone, and all the nightmares came rushing back. Maeglin’s fists hammered against Námo’s chest. The Vala didn’t try to stop him. “You had him here, you had him locked away, and you let him go! He never could have hurt me if not for you!” He broke down crying, and Námo folded him gently in his arms, wrapping him in cool stillness. 

“I know, child. I’m so sorry. The Dark One is gone now. Defeated. He’ll never hurt you again.”

Maeglin slid to the floor. “I want him gone from my head. I don’t want to remember.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t give you that. But in time, it can get better. There are others who know what you’ve suffered. Come, let them talk with you. They want to help.”

Maeglin shivered and shrank away. “They don’t know. They didn’t kill everyone who ever loved them.” He turned and pressed his face against the cold stone wall. He couldn’t tell what kind of stone it was. Even in Angband, he’d had that comfort. Námo laid a hand on his shoulder, but he jerked away. After a while, Námo got up and left him alone.

*

The tapestries seemed to grow closer and closer, as if they’d swallow him whole. Maeglin cowered on the floor, his arms over his head, trying to hide from the burning city, the white towers crashing down. It didn’t help; he still knew it was there. He could taste smoke and marble dust in the air. 

A gentle hand came to rest on his head. “Dear heart. I’m here with you.”

Maeglin looked up. It was Nienna. He curled up in her arms and let her hold him. Her tears fell on his hair. It felt easier to breathe, somehow, as if so long as she wept, carried his grief for him, he needn’t weep as hard himself. “Please make them go away. The tapestries. I don’t want to see them anymore.”

“You can leave this room whenever you want. You have to will yourself away. I can’t will it for you, but I'll stay with you while you do.” 

Maeglin considered this. He knew it to be true; he knew it in his bones, or whatever passed for them. He remembered why he had ended up here in the first place. He deserved to see what he had done. And he didn’t deserve comfort. He pulled away from her; he didn’t will himself elsewhere. He cowered and cried. Nienna might have tried to say something to him. He didn’t listen. She wept. 

*

Maeglin did learn. He found the corners where no Maia would try to comfort him or call Námo for help. He taught himself to shrink into shadow until he hardly heard or felt or saw a thing. He discovered if he was very still and very quiet and slipped outside himself, as he had done once or twice in Angband, he could even stop his thoughts for a time. And that was almost like not existing at all.

*

“Maeglin.”

He looked up but did not respond. He’d managed to avoid Námo so long he'd hoped he’d been forgotten.

Námo sat beside him. “You haven’t found any peace here.”

“I don’t think I was looking for peace.”

“Yes. That’s a problem.”

Maeglin leaned his head back. “Why should I? Why try for something I can never have?”

“What makes you think you can't?”

Maeglin didn't bother answering that.

“Do you want to live again?”

“No. I will stay here forever. Unless you have a way to kill my fëa too. In which case I’m angry you didn’t tell me sooner.” The words felt empty even as he said them. He wasn’t sure he remembered being angry. It felt like it took a lot of effort.

“Some do choose to stay forever. But if you choose that, I want it to be because that’s what you truly desire, because you’ve found your place here, not because you can’t see any other way. If you stay, I want to see you join the circles of your family. Your ancestors. There are elves who woke at Cuiviénen, whose world is gone, who don’t want a part in what is now. There’s your great-grandfather Finwë. They sit and sing and tell stories, and have love and companionship with one another. They would welcome you.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“What do you want, Maeglin?”

“I want to rest. I want to know nothing. Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“There are halls here devoted to rest, and yet I do not see you enter them.”

Maeglin had seen them—rooms full of soft cushions and softer singing, fëar who sat in silent contemplation, looks of ecstasy on their faces at whatever unseen wonders they explored. Those who lay dreaming, wandering in sweet memory they willingly shared, holding hands with their loved ones. He shunned them assiduously. Only nightmares lay that way for him. 

“If you’d let them, my Maiar would help you. I would help you. Introduce you to people. Hold you when you're scared. Lead you into better dreams.”

“They’ve tried. I don’t want their help.” 

*

“I’m not sure this is the best place for you anymore.”

Maeglin wished Námo would stop hunting him out.

“You should be with those who love you, and the ones you want aren’t here.”

“There were precious few of those. I don’t think there are any now.”

“Isn’t there anyone you want to see again?”

“Idril,” Maeglin said promptly. He knew it displeased the Vala; maybe he’d go away.

Námo sighed. “Is there a reason you won’t let yourself heal? Something out there that pulls at you? I’ve learned that for some, the path that seems clear to others doesn't fit. For most, there’s healing and rest here, and then they’re ready to live. For a few…you need to live again in order to heal. Finish something you left undone. Reunite with someone you can’t be without. Atone for something you can’t forgive yourself. Maybe that would be better for you. Think about it.”

*

Maeglin thought. He found himself pacing corridors he hadn’t visited in ages. Staring at tapestries. Hanging on the edges of gatherings—never letting himself be seen, but looking for someone, anyone who might remember him, who might treat him with the scorn he expected and remind him why he hated everything. He started running his fingertips over tiny woven details, wondering what it would be like to walk in Tirion, so like Turgon’s designs. He explored years of history, watching as his dear Celebrimbor built his own city and lost it to Sauron's treachery, as little Eärendil’s sons parted ways, one to build a nation and one a hidden haven that he fought to keep safe. He saw the exiles slowly return. Did he truly want to walk among them? No. They would hate him too. But he couldn’t get the idea out of his head. If he didn’t have to do anything for it…if Námo would just let him go… His mother was there. There were stones, and iron, and something in him hungered to touch, to seek, to make.

This time he sought Námo. “I want to live again.”

*

Maeglin opened his eyes. As Námo had promised, it was sundown, and the last rays of light were bearable. He’d steadfastly refused to give the Maiar any names of people he wanted to meet him; he should be alone. Just as he wanted. He stretched cautiously. The shadows of pain that had haunted him since Angband didn’t exist in this new body, but he suspected they would only need a nightmare or two to take root. He looked around. A forest grew not far from where he’d emerged. And—staring at him from across the field— _no._

The pale, dark-haired elf approached him. A figure from nightmares that began long before Angband. Maeglin struggled to his feet, unsteady and afraid. Eöl didn’t speak until he stood close enough to reach out and touch his son.

“I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you again. It was quite a surprise to learn of the Vala’s mercy.” The last words dripped with disdain. Maeglin wondered why he’d chosen to live in the land of gods he’d spurned. “You’ll be glad to know my home is ready to welcome you, and in time, I’m sure I can forgive your ungratefulness and treachery.”

 _No. This can’t be happening._ Maeglin wanted to flee, to cover his ears, to do anything to shut out the reality about to consume him, but he was frozen to the spot.

Eöl grabbed his wrist and pulled him into a stiff embrace. Long fingers pressed his face against his father’s chest. He remembered those fingers. Striking him, striking his mother. Squeezing his throat when he slipped and spoke a word of Quenya. He tried to jerk away, but Eöl gripped him tighter.

“Let me go! Leave me alone!”

“Is that any way to speak to your father? You are my son still, no matter how much you’ve spat upon your blood. Come, we’re going home now. I only want to care for you; there’s no need to make a fuss. You know as well as I you’ve nowhere else to go. Who would take you? I’ll forgive you tearing our family apart, but I doubt anyone will forgive the loss of their pretty little town.”

Maeglin went limp and stopped resisting. He was right, of course. He blinked away tears. 

“That’s it.” Eöl led him toward a pair of waiting horses. “I want what’s best for you, for our family. I know it’s hard, when you’ve just gotten here, and everything’s so confusing. I know part of you wants to run from your problems. Don’t worry; I’ll keep your wings well-clipped so you’ll never be lost.”

“No, please no, I don’t want to go,” he sobbed, letting Eöl pull him along, yanking him up like a recalcitrant toddler when he stumbled.

“Hey, now.” Maeglin’s head shot up. Where had this elf appeared from? He blocked their path, arms crossed. “Is he bothering you, kid?” This was addressed straight to Maeglin, who managed to nod.

His father’s eyes narrowed. “Kindly get out of the way. This is my son, and he’s no business of yours.”

“I think he is my business. Let him go.” The stranger’s hair was the color of starlight, his braids hung with bits of bone and feather. He was dressed in leather and fur, and his thickly muscled arms were bare and covered in tattoos. A huge wolfhound stepped up beside him and growled.

Eöl unsheathed a slim black blade, and Maeglin drew breath to shout a warning, but the stranger was quicker. He twisted Eöl’s wrist and forced him to drop the knife, then with one smooth movement had him on the ground. Pinning his hands, he pressed a knee into his chest. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna let you up, and you’re gonna get out of here. I won’t stop the kid if he wants to go with you, but you’re not gonna make him. Understand?”

Reluctantly, Eöl gave a terse nod, and the stranger released him, watching him like a hawk as he scrambled to his feet and backed away.

“Kid?” Maeglin shook his head and hid behind the stranger. “I guess there’s your answer,” he said to Eöl. The elf scowled, but he mounted his horse and disappeared into the forest. “I doubt he’s gone far—” The stranger turned toward him, but Maeglin gave out. He sank to the ground, trembling and sobbing. His lungs refused to draw breath. “It's all right, that’ll pass. You take your time; you'll feel better again.” The stranger sat beside him, but he didn’t try to touch him, to Maeglin's relief. 

The gigantic hound lay down and crawled towards him, waiting a little distance away until Maeglin reached for him. The hound rested his head in Maeglin’s lap, and he dug shaky fingers into his fur. That felt good, and after a moment he curled around him, hiding his face in the soft fur and holding tight. Slowly his breaths grew easier. When he could speak again through his tears, he looked up warily. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Your momma Aredhel sent me. She’s…a sister to me.”

Maeglin went down the list of his uncles, but he'd met Fingon once, and this elf didn't look like any description of Argon he’d heard.

“Er…I’m your uncle Celegorm.”

Maeglin’s eyes widened. “Then…you’re…”

“Son of Fëanor. And a kinslayer, if that’s what has you scared.” He drew back a little, as if to make it clear he wouldn’t stop Maeglin if he wanted to escape.

Maeglin laughed wildly. “Like that even matters when I’ve done so much worse. You saved me. What…what now?”

“I’ll take you with me. Then I’ll get you to your momma—she was afraid that bastard would show up, or she would’ve been here herself.”

“No.” He’d longed for her in the Halls, but now that he was here… “I don’t want her to see me. Not after…after…” The taste of marble dust filled his mouth, and he broke down sobbing again. Everything felt so much _more,_ solid and final and unbending. Too sharply real, too dangerous. He wondered how anyone stood it. _He’ll leave me,_ he realized, but he couldn’t stop crying. _No one wants a crybaby. Or a traitor. No one wants me._ For the first time in long ages, he didn’t want to be left. He clutched at Celegorm’s shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t go, I swear I’m not always like this…”

“Hey, it’s all right.” Celegorm eased him into his arms and rubbed Maeglin’s back gently. He’d forgotten how good a simple touch could feel. “You’ve had a hard time. It’s okay to not be okay. You can be not okay for just as long as you need, and you don’t have to feel bad about it. Got it?”

Maeglin nodded, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. 

Celegorm didn’t stop the soothing touch, though Maeglin could feel his tension and vigilance. “I wanna take you somewhere safer,” he said after a while. “Can you get on a horse for me?”

“I don’t think I can sit a horse by myself,” Maeglin admitted. His body was still shaky, and the thought of holding himself up made him dizzy. 

“That’s fine, I’ll hold you. Think you can trust me that far?”

Maeglin raised his head, and Celegorm wiped the snot and tears from his face without a second thought. “Yeah. I trust you.” It was easier than saying _‘I don’t care what happens to me, as long as my father isn’t doing it,’_ and he wasn’t sure there was much difference anyway. Celegorm scooped him up as if he were weightless and set him on the back of a pale horse he thought might be golden in the light. Behind him Celegorm swung into the saddle, and whistling for his hound and the second horse he’d brought to follow, he rode among the trees. Overhead, Maeglin could see stars peeking through the branches. He’d forgotten how beautiful they were. 

“So, is it Maeglin, or Lómion?”

Maeglin shuddered. Lómion was an innocent boy who lived in shadows. Lómion was his mother’s beloved son. Lómion never hurt anyone. “It’s Maeglin.”


	2. Berries and Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Naneth" is Sindarin for "mother"

Maeglin opened his eyes and immediately squeezed them shut again with a whimper. The damage had been done; tears ran down his cheeks from the pain. 

“What’s wrong, Maeglin?” Celegorm’s voice was gentle and steadying.

“The light. It’s so bright. I can’t stand it.” Maeglin winced. He shouldn’t have admitted that. Now Celegorm would think him some evil creature, halfway at least to being an orc, and he wouldn’t be so wrong; hadn’t they whispered that about him even before? He heard a flap drop, and the light dimmed a little, but not enough. It was followed by a ripping sound, and a piece of soft, smooth fabric was pressed into his hand. 

“Try that over your eyes. Should be thin enough to see through.”

Maeglin felt the weight of the silk and doubled it before tying it behind his head. Cautiously he raised his eyelids again. Through the strip of black silk, the light was bearable, and everything was shrouded in a comfortable dim haze. He sighed in relief.

“Better?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Were you this sensitive to light before?”

_Ah. Here it comes. “Angband made you a monster and I don’t want you here.”_ He told the truth, not knowing what else to say. “Only when I first left Nan Elmoth as a child. We did everything by night there. I adjusted.”

“New bodies are a pain in the ass for a while. Your fëa tends to pull bits and pieces from what it remembers as being you, and often not the ones you wish it had. It’s like new shoes, you gotta break it in before it’s comfortable. If it’s easier for you, we can sleep by day and be up at night. I don’t mind.”

Maeglin started to tear up again from the kindness of this person who didn’t even know him and was willing to go so far. No one in Gondolin had ever been as thoughtful. “I think I’d better try to get used to daylight again.”

“Suit yourself.” Celegorm passed him a round of dense, dark flatbread and a piece of fish. “I'm gonna head out in a bit, check some snares and maybe pick berries. You wanna come?”

“Sure.” Maeglin bit into the flatbread and was quietly stunned. He tasted chestnuts and acorns, and the mildly sweet, earthy flavor took him back to his childhood and his mother singing by starlight. They'd laughed when he asked for nut bread in Gondolin, and showed him the fields of golden wheat and barley that stretched over the plains of Tumladen. He hadn’t expected ever to eat it again. 

“This is yours.” Celegorm tossed him a bundle of clothing, fine blue wool and linen with silver embroidery around the edges. “Your mother made them for you and sent them along. But for wading through berry brambles, you might want to just borrow something of mine.” He poked through his scattered belongings until he came up with a pair of leather pants and a linen shirt that had seen better days. “No need to worry about spoiling these.” He grinned.

Maeglin still stared at the tunic in his hands. “She wants me dressed like a Nolofinwion prince?”

“Well, that is what you are.”

Maeglin laughed bitterly. “Once maybe. Not anymore.”

“You know, Fingolfin gets to decide that, not Turgon. And I don't think Turgon—”

“If you don't mind, I really don't want to hear that name. Or think about it. Or talk about it. Or—”

“I got you.” Celegorm gently took the clothing back and stowed it in a little trunk, carefully refolded. “Just, this is here for you when you want it.”

_So never,_ Maeglin thought, but he didn't say it. He felt awful to reject a gift from his mother, but he couldn't imagine wearing it. It would be an insult to all the people who had put faith in him as their lord and their prince, people who had died cruelly at his word. Living at all was probably an insult to their memory. He wasn’t sure Námo understood these things. Maybe this whole endeavor was a bad idea.

Celegorm left the tent to give him some privacy, and Maeglin heaved a sigh and got dressed. Celegorm’s clothes were a little big on him, but he belted in the pants, and they fit well enough. They were simple work clothes, stained and worn, not so different from what he’d favored in the mines and the forge, and he felt much more himself in them than in the shapeless grey thing he’d worn from the Halls.

The green-gold light that filtered through the leaves was enchanting and soft, and as he followed Celegorm, looking about at all the beauty of the forest, Maeglin began to think perhaps everything wasn’t unmitigatedly awful after all. Nan Elmoth had been far thicker with ancient, gnarled trees that shut out the rest of the world, but these trees seemed friendly and inviting. He heard the chattering of birds and squirrels and saw, far off, a herd of elk with their young. 

They came to a clearing where a trunk as broad as Maeglin was tall had fallen, taking a swathe of smaller trees down with it. In the pool of light, a thicket of blackberries had sprung up, and their fruit gleamed like red and black jewels. Celegorm handed Maeglin a basket of woven rushes, and they began to pick. Maeglin moved carefully around the thorns. Curious, he popped one of the ripe berries into his mouth, and gasped at the explosion of sun-warmed juices, sweet and tart and rich with delight that had been missing from his grey aching days.

“Go easy there,” Celegorm called to him after a few minutes. “Your stomach’ll need time to adjust too.”

Reluctantly Maeglin slowed down and started adding berries to his basket again. He spotted a glimmer of gold on the forest floor and went to investigate. He plucked the yellow mushroom and peered at the webbing of thick ridges on its underside. It smelled brightly of apricots. “Celegorm? Are mushrooms here the same as in Beleriand?”

“Depends.” Celegorm came over to look. “Ehh, chanterelles are chanterelles everywhere. You’ll find some things you haven’t seen before if you keep an eye out, but if you recognize one, it’ll be the same as what you know or close enough as makes no difference. Honestly there were a lot more poisonous mushrooms to worry about there than here.”

“In that case, I think I see another. These used to be my favorites.” Maeglin gathered as many as he could find close by and then returned to the berry patch.

“You grew up in the forest, right?” Celegorm asked. “You seem comfortable here. Did you like it?”

“I was a child. It was all I knew.” Maeglin was quiet, thinking, long enough that he figured the moment was over, but Celegorm hadn't seemed to mind his awkwardness yet. “I did like the forest. I used to wander a long way under the stars. I knew every tree for as far as I was allowed to go. It was better than being at home.”

“Were there other children around? I used to go to the woods to get away from all my brothers, but sometimes I'd drag them along for adventures.”

“There was only me. Naneth would wander with me, especially when I was small. She was the only one I could really talk to. Then we fled to Gondolin, and…and I…I learned you can be just as lonely in a city full of people.”

“I tried to track you guys down when I realized you'd crossed our lands and had that asshole on your tail.” 

Maeglin could feel Celegorm's grief and shame bleeding around the edges of his words and clamped down hard on the momentary urge to reach out. The thought of another’s mind touching his brought foul memories of pain and torment, and he doubted he'd ever welcome it again.

“I couldn't reach you in time. I'm sorry.”

_It's not your fault,_ Maeglin started to say automatically, but then he thought perhaps it was. If Celegorm had tried harder, had caught up to Eöl before he saw them, his mother might still be with him. Maybe he never would have been captured. Maybe he could have died with honor, protecting his city instead of gaping in horror at what he had done. “I want to go back. I'm…very tired.”

Celegorm gave him a look as if he knew what was going through his head, a look full of pity Maeglin hated. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. I can find the way.”

Celegorm whistled, and Huan came running from wherever he'd been exploring. “Go with him,” Celegorm told him. “Just in case you run into something or get turned around,” he said to Maeglin. “He'll keep you safe.”

Maeglin nodded his thanks and walked away, the huge dog at his side. 

Being alone was no better. He made it back to the tent and collapsed on the pile of furs where he’d woken. He kept replaying the scene Celegorm—Turgon— _someone_ should have prevented, his father’s hand on the javelin, his mother dashing in front of him, himself frozen in terror and utterly powerless. As powerless as he’d always been when it came to his father. Those hands had hurt him in so many ways over the years. They should have been his undoing. Her death should have been his, if he hadn’t been such a coward. 

He studied his own hands. They were undeniably his father’s; whereas Aredhel’s had been sturdy, strong, and gentle, he had inherited Eöl’s long and delicate fingers that never managed to look like a smith’s no matter how many callouses and scars from the inevitable scrapes and burns he accumulated. All those marks were gone now, and there was nothing to draw his attention from the underlying lines. 

Maeglin swallowed hard. He remembered one terrible afternoon in Angband—he thought of it as afternoon; underground he couldn’t know—when he’d been tied down across a table from Mairon—Sauron; he didn’t have to call him that anymore—and had watched and screamed as Sauron broke every bone in those slender fingers, slowly, one by one, weeping his crocodile tears all the while and begging him to betray Gondolin so he could stop. He’d healed them after so it left no trace; nothing he’d done had left a trace, unless you counted the scars on Maeglin’s fëa. Maeglin wondered what it would take to break them again himself. If they’d heal back crooked and knotted and spare him the image of his father every time he looked down. If it would be worth the risk of losing his craft. Hell, wasn’t his smithwork of his father too? Maybe he’d be better off without it. But who would he even be if not a smith? Huan was nosing at him; he pushed him away.

“Hey there. You wanna talk about it?”

Maeglin jumped. He hadn’t noticed Celegorm enter the tent. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. “No. I really, really don’t.”

“All right. Want a hug?”

Maeglin tried to make himself refuse that too, but a desperate longing rose up in his throat, and he sobbed and flung himself into Celegorm’s arms.


	3. Steel and Stone

Maeglin screamed. The twin Silmarils loured above him in the gloom. Morgoth opened his mouth, and black shadows poured from it, wreathing and oozing around him, burning his skin like acid wherever they touched. They breathed whispers of torment, and Maeglin knew too well by now what that meant—what it truly meant in all its shades and tempers. Sitting at his master’s feet, gazing up at him adoringly was Mairon, his hair glowing softly like the red flame of a forge fire, lovely, so achingly lovely, and he turned and smiled at Maeglin, his mouth far too full of sharp, sharp teeth.

“Maeglin. You’re in Aman. You're safe.” The voice was gentle and husky with sleep. “You're in my tent in the woods, remember? No one can hurt you. I'm here.”

Maeglin gasped and sat up. A wet tongue licked his face, and a huge, furry head butted against him.

“Huan! Don't be a jerk! He might not want you there.”

Pulling him closer, Maeglin buried his face in Huan's fur and clung to him, trembling. Celegorm reached over and rubbed his back. “It—it was them,” Maeglin forced out shakily. “M-Morgoth and Sauron. They—” He whimpered and couldn't manage another word. The last few days had been so mild and pleasant; he’d started to think maybe he'd escaped the darkness, but there it was, lurking and ready to devour him.

“They can't ever hurt you again,” Celegorm was saying. “You’re safe here. I'll keep you safe.”

“You can't keep me safe.” Bitter scorn rose unbidden, and Maeglin gave it rein unthinkingly. “You couldn't save your own brother. You left him to rot there. I _know_ what they did to him.”

Celegorm drew a harsh breath, but he kept his tone light. “Yeah, well, I was a scared little dumbass then. But here I've got my own Vala at hand; Oromë is my…husband, for all practical purposes, and he'll show up the instant I ask. Hell, for that matter Huan took Sauron down himself. You can trust him if you don't trust me. Nearly tore his nasty throat out, didn't you boy? Who’s a good dog?” He scratched Huan's ears.

Huan thumped his tail, and the tightness in Maeglin's chest eased. “I saw the scars on his throat,” he whispered. “You are a good dog.” They spent a while petting Huan together while he reveled in the attention, until Maeglin curled up again under a soft fur with Huan's head on his chest and the steady sound of his breath calming him. “I'm sorry I said that. About Maedhros,” he murmured softly. 

“Nah. That's fair.”

*

It was raining when he woke again, a dismal grey morning that turned everything to mud. Maeglin reached for his blindfold and decided a single thickness was enough. Celegorm had lit a fire, the tent flap propped up to partially shelter it, but it sputtered along half-heartedly. He offered Maeglin tea made of spruce tips and more of the nut bread Maeglin loved with berries and honey. Maeglin had little appetite, but he nibbled at his breakfast and let the piney tea warm him. There was little to do in the confines of the tent. Celegorm seemed more taciturn than usual; he sat poking at the fire and staring into it morosely. 

Maeglin started straightening up; Celegorm didn't appear to care where he'd left most things as long as they were within easy reach, but Maeglin felt much better when his surroundings were tidy and ordered. He folded clothes, stacked dishes neatly, shook out the furs and rearranged them. It didn't take long, and then he was back to sitting with nothing to do. The burst of initiative had sapped his energy, so perhaps that was just as well.

Celegorm stretched and came inside, grabbing a bundle of leather Maeglin had left untouched. He paused and looked around, then studied Maeglin. “I got no metal for you to mess with, but there's a couple of good carving knives. Or…uhh…leather and sinew, if there's something you wanna sew. And there’s always arrows that need fletching and clothes that need mending, if you just want to keep your hands busy.” He flopped down outside again, right at the edge of the shelter, and spread the leather over his lap.

“Why would I do your mending?” Maeglin asked irritably. “I had servants for that in Gondolin.”

“Yeah, that does tend to destroy your ability to do things for yourself.”

“Like you can talk.”

“Do you see any servants out here?”

“You can't tell me the great prince Fëanor didn't have servants.”

“Oh, we did, but you see, my father had this wild idea that his children ought to know the basic skills of daily life. I was damn glad of it too, when we got to Beleriand.”

It occurred to Maeglin that Celegorm might not want to speak of his father any more than he did, and further that he ought not to anger his only source of assistance. He didn't think he could survive right now alone. Celegorm had chosen a rock from his bundle—Maeglin recognized flint—and was flaking bits off. Tiny shards flew from his strikes, carefully aimed away. Maeglin crawled closer and watched silently over his shoulder.

“Are you making a knife?” he asked at last.

“Yep.”

“From stone.”

“You got a problem with that, kid?”

“No!! It's just…the Green-elves always had knives like that, and I wanted to learn to make them, and…my father said it was worthless to spend time on that, when we had steel that was so much better. I’d…really like to learn.”

“Oh.” Celegorm brightened a little. “I can show you. I've always had plenty of good steel around; even now my little brother’s constantly making stuff he wants me to test, and I still have a blade Atya made me that Ammë held onto for me all these years. But there's something satisfying about knowing I can walk naked into the woods and find everything I need. This knife? This is freedom.”

Maeglin couldn’t help staring. “You…you have a knife by Fëanor himself?” His earlier resolve was entirely forgotten. The elf might have been a monster, but he was the best smith who ever lived.

Celegorm's lips quirked into a smile. “Sure do. You wanna see it?”

“You have it _here?!”_ Maeglin squeaked in excitement, and Celegorm’s smile grew into a broad, easy grin. 

“Come on, then.” Going back inside, Celegorm opened his trunk and dug down to the bottom. He pulled out a sheathed hunting knife and handed it to Maeglin, who turned it over reverently, drawing the blade and inspecting its elegant curve with fascination.

“Do you think it's some weird twist of fate, that the greatest smiths are always the worst people?”

Celegorm stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “Don't talk about my father like that.” He took back the knife and rewrapped it in a silk covering before tucking it away.

“But…” Maeglin was confused; he hadn't meant any offense. He'd intended solidarity, if anything. “You’re defending him, after what he did to everyone who crossed the Ice? To you and your brothers?”

“Do you see me standing here accusing you of shit without knowing the whole story?”

“I…I thought…the histories…I thought you were like me. I mean,” he hastened to add, realizing how bad that sounded, “your father. Must have been like mine.”

“My father was nothing like yours. He loved us.” Celegorm’s voice dropped to a low and dangerous register.

“But he made you swear the Oath,” Maeglin whispered, terrified but unable to stop himself.

Celegorm walked out without another word, into the pouring rain.

Maeglin stared after him. He felt sick; he started to shake. He should've known better; he should've kept his stupid mouth shut; now…where would he go? Should he be gone before Celegorm came back? Would it be all right to take some food? He didn't even know where he was or where he could find other people, cities, somewhere to get help, or work, or… He should have considered this sooner. Started a plan, asked for information, stockpiled some supplies that wouldn't be missed. Celegorm was nice enough, he was sure. It was his own fault he was like this. He'd never been able to speak without eventually causing offense. He thought of the trackless forest, and Eöl somewhere waiting, and people who would recognize him and run him off without a thought. It was too much for him when just getting up in the morning took all his strength. He sank down on the furs and wondered what Námo would say if he showed up again. He knew his lack of action was its own decision, but he couldn't make himself take either escape. He curled into a tight ball. Celegorm could kick him out when he returned; until then he pulled a heavy bear pelt over himself and hid from everything.

A steady _thunk, thunk, thunk_ roused him. Maeglin stumbled to the tent door and peered out. The rain hadn't stopped, but it had lightened a bit. Celegorm stood with his back to the tent, throwing his stone knives at a target he’d marked on a tree. His hair and his clothes were soaked. Maeglin bit his lip. Celegorm had been kind to him; even when he’d made him angry, he hadn’t hurt or threatened him. He didn't want him out there suffering. Celegorm retrieved his knives, and when he started a new round, Maeglin took a deep breath and went out to him.

“Celegorm?”

He jumped and swore; his knife hit a full inch shy of the mark. “Vána’s tits, you startled me.”

Maeglin lowered his eyes and backed up. “I just…I wanted to apologize. I wasn’t trying to be an ass, it just…I…I'm sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. You didn't know any better. I shouldn’t’ve lost my temper. I hate how everyone keeps repeating stupid shit about him, but it's not like you can do anything about what you were taught. I'm sure that snotty asshole Turgon had some strong opinions. How could he not? His poor wife…” Celegorm sighed. “I'm not mad at you, okay? I just needed to cool my head.”

Maeglin nodded mutely.

“You shouldn't stand out here in the rain; you'll get soaked.” Celegorm pushed him gently back towards the tent. He built up the fire, and when he’d toweled off and changed into dry clothes, he brewed some fresh tea and handed some to Maeglin. It was just beginning to dawn on him that somehow, the crisis had passed, and he wasn’t being forced to leave.

“So…I don't want to give you the wrong impression,” Celegorm began. “I've done a lot of fucked-up shit. We all did. And a lot of it, there's no excuse for. I don't deny that. But…there were a lot of strong emotions, and a lot of awful things going on, and…we did what we thought we had to.” He covered his face with his palm. “No. I shouldn't say that. We knew it was wrong, and we decided our loyalty mattered more. Our family. And yeah, Atya made some terrible decisions. But he never had to push us into them; we'd've followed him to the ends of the earth. I mean, we did. Because we loved him. And…he was so broken over it, in the Halls. What we'd been through for him. I’d’ve forgiven him then if I hadn’t already. 

“He was never cruel to us. He never raised a hand to any of us. As a child, I felt a bit like the odd one out. My brothers were all geniuses, and here I was, running around in the woods. But Atya would tell me we were all brilliant in our own different ways, and I'd understand mine eventually, and that he was proud of me already. And he'd ask me about what I was doing, what tracks I’d spotted, what tricks I was teaching Huan, and when I got into long rambling stories about the best herbs to cover my scent or a new style of arrow I was experimenting with, he'd listen just as intently as he did to Maglor's compositions or Caranthir’s math problems. I guess what I'm trying to say is I always knew he loved me and accepted me, and it hurts when people assume that the times when he messed up were all there was to him.”

“I can barely imagine that,” Maeglin murmured. “What it would be like. Only one thing mattered to my father, and I was required to excel at it, and I was still never good enough for him.” 

Celegorm squeezed Maeglin’s shoulder, then glanced at him closer. “You’re shivering; let me grab you a cloak.”

Maeglin accepted the thick wool Celegorm draped around him; it was comforting, though he didn't think he was really cold.

“You still want to try your hand at flintknapping? Take your mind off this shit?”

“Can I?”

“Course.” Celegorm brought his supplies over and showed Maeglin how to hold the flint and shape it with precisely placed blows. Flake by flake, the afternoon grew lighter.


	4. Sapphire and Gold

Outside the tent a loud whooping rang through the glade. Maeglin groaned and rolled over. He didn’t want to get up; he didn’t want to be awake at all. It didn’t seem worth the effort. But the shouting was more than he could sleep through, and it was interspersed with laughter and cries of “Good boy, Huan!” Finally Maeglin stuck his head out to see what the racket was. Celegorm's bare chest was spattered with blood, and his arms were slick with it. A small deer hung from a tree, stripped of its skin, in the process of being butchered. Celegorm was tossing bits of organs to Huan, flinging them high so that Huan could jump to catch them. Maeglin wouldn't have guessed the huge dog could move with such lightning-fast grace. 

“Hey, you feel like giving me a hand?” Celegorm had caught sight of him. 

To his surprise, it sounded like a real question, but Maeglin decided it was best to agree regardless. “Sure, I'll be there in a minute.” He pulled on a shirt that was already too stained to ruin and straightened his bed before joining him.

Celegorm handed him a knife, and Maeglin tried not to look at him too closely. The traces of blood on his teeth were unsettling. “We’re gonna dry a lot of this in strips; can you cut it like this?” He demonstrated, slicing off thin, narrow lengths of meat. Maeglin’s weren't as neat, but after a couple of tries, they were almost as thin. “Great! I'll get a roast started for later. Hope you like venison; we’ll be eating it for a while.”

Maeglin decided there were worse people to work beside. Celegorm tried a couple of times to draw him into conversation, but when he saw it wasn’t happening, he shrugged and whistled or sang softly to himself. Huan had flopped down on a little rise where he could watch over the camp without raising his head. By midday, Maeglin's fingers were cramping, and a blister was forming at the base of his first finger. He paused and stretched his hands, imagining how long it would take to harden them to a hammer again and wondering if he cared enough to do it. Wincing, he picked up the knife.

“Nope. I shouldn't’ve let you go so long in the first place; I saw that look.”

“I…I'm fine. I can work.” His father had made him work until his hands bled often enough that he'd thought nothing of doing it to himself later. He'd worked through nights, sleepless, ignoring pain, for no better reason than to distract himself. This was child's play. “I'm not so tired that I'll slip; promise.”

“It's not a matter of whether you'll slip. I want you stop well before that point. I don't want you hurting yourself.”

“But there's a lot more…” 

Celegorm was reclaiming the knife from him. “Take an actual break, and then you can start stringing these up. You're gonna need a while to work up to what you could do before. You have to be kind to your body and let it adjust.”

Maeglin snorted at that. He didn't need kindness or expect it. But he saw that Celegorm was adamant, so he washed up and lay beside Huan, nibbling some bread wrapped around a piece of venison toasted over the fire. When he came back, Celegorm had almost finished carving up the deer. They sprinkled salt and spices on the venison strips and threaded them on string, hanging them from the trees over a series of small fires banked with green wood that billowed smoke.

“There's a good swimming hole down the river a bit,” Celegorm told him as he tied off a knot. “You should go check it out, cool off.”

“What about you? You’ve been working longer and harder than I have.”

“I gotta watch these fires. You go first; I'll take a turn when you're done.”

Maeglin wandered down the river—more of a large creek, really—until he saw a deep, clear pool, and he quickly stripped and jumped in. The cold water was a welcome shock after the heat of the day, and the sun shining on his skin through the leaves contrasted pleasantly. He found himself splashing around, just enjoying how it felt, playing in a way he hadn't in perhaps a very long time. That thought made him self-conscious, and he grabbed a handful of sand to scrub himself clean. 

Light caught on a pebble, and he plucked it out, turning it in the sun. It was a striking translucent blue, and though worn from being tumbled in the water, still recognizably hexagonal. Maeglin felt a slow smile spread across his face. Though he wished for his favorite loupe and his set of gems to check its hardness against, it was unlikely to be anything but a sapphire. He set it carefully in a hollow between two roots, and after poking around until he found the gravelly patch it had probably come from, started combing through handfuls of rocks. He found another, smaller and a lighter blue, before Huan’s barking reminded him he didn't have all afternoon. With a huff, he finished washing and scrubbed out a bit of blood from his shirt. He scooped up his gems and headed back, preparing himself to be scolded for taking so long.

Celegorm didn't look upset. He grinned. “Nice out there, huh?”

Maeglin nodded.

“Find something?”

Realizing too late his fist held in front of his body was a dead giveaway, Maeglin opened his hand and held them out.

“Pretty. Are those something special?”

Maeglin was flustered for a moment. “Uhh. They're sapphires? At least I think they are; I’d need a test or two to confirm.” The thrill of his find overtook him, and words kept coming. “There's likely a good alluvial deposit that these washed down from; I’d love to explore the river and see if I can find some promising sites for panning. Even just where I was.” He rolled the largest between his fingers, wishing again he had the tools to evaluate it more closely. 

“What do you need in order to do that?”

“What?”

“For what you said. I haven't seen you get that excited about much of anything.”

 _Just that cursed knife,_ Maeglin thought. 

“It's a good look on you. Tell me what you need; I'll make it happen if I can.”

“Well…some kind of pan. Maybe a trowel. It's really low-tech mining, honestly.”

“Have a look through the dishes; see if one will work?”

Maeglin smiled “All right. Thanks.” He kept an eye on the fires, feeding them and occasionally turning the big roast. There weren't many dishes to consider; most of them were round bowls, sized for one person to eat from. He was sitting morosely, prodding the fire with a stick when Celegorm came back, wringing water from his hair. 

“Any luck?”

“They're too small.”

Celegorm lowered a pack from a tree. Maeglin had thought it held only food, raised to keep animals out. Setting aside several parcels, Celegorm triumphantly pulled out a shallow, dented platter made of beaten copper. “What about this?”

“Would it maybe be okay if I reshaped it a little? I know that's a lot to ask…”

“Nah, I hardly ever use it. It's yours.”

Maeglin cradled it to his chest like it was precious. “Thank you,” he whispered.

*

Maeglin woke from dreams that were muddled but not terrifying for once—he thought he recalled a glimpse of golden hair—and rocked his hips, brushing his cock against the covers, catching his breath at how uncomplicatedly good it felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an erection and actually enjoyed it. Before Angband, he supposed. After, he’d cut himself off from so many things, tried to pretend he didn’t have a body that could feel, that could be hurt. Had tried, once or twice, to get rid of himself altogether. _Ugh._ There was no point in following that train of thought. Not when his body was somehow still humming with desire to be touched. 

He tried it gingerly, just running his fingers lightly down his cock. He gasped and found himself thrusting in search of more. Evidently the sensitivity of a new body wasn’t all bad. He listened intently, but heard no indication that Celegorm or Huan were nearby. Good. There was no way he’d be able to do this quietly. He stroked himself gently, holding his cock between his thumb and two fingers, exploring half-forgotten sensations and losing himself in wonder that he could have this again. This was a body Morgoth had never fouled, and it was his. He would spit in Morgoth’s face and find pleasure again despite all he’d done. He swiped his thumb through the bead of precome gathering at his slit and rubbed it over the head, shivering as he imagined someone else’s touch—Tyelpë’s, maybe, with his oh-so-gentle hands and his wicked tongue. He thought of golden hair again, and shoved the idea away. He shouldn’t think of _her._ He had no right. She wouldn’t want that…but after all, she wasn’t here, and it wasn’t like thoughts could hurt her, and who would ever know what he did in his own mind? 

Maeglin closed his hand around his cock, still trying to keep it slow, to draw out his pleasure. Idril’s lips on his…moaning as he pushed her dress back, caressed her soft round breast… _“Oh, Maeglin, I’ve wanted you so long…”_ Her eyes widening in pleasure as he parted her thighs, found her slick with desire, softly circled her clit until she was pushing him down, demanding his worship, crying out as she came on his tongue and his lips, undone, sighing as she quivered against him, came again. He pictured her nudging him onto his back, lying on the grass as he protested half-heartedly— _“Idril, my love, you needn’t, I swear, I only want your pleasure”_ —her smacking his thighs apart and nestling between them— _“and why shouldn’t I want yours as well, my dearest?”_ Her lips closing around him so sweetly. _No, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t_ —but he was already so close, what harm could it do? He knew she didn’t really want him. Couldn’t he at least have this? 

Tension and sweet aching pleasure spiraled together, and his balls tightened as he tried to contain his moans. Idril’s mouth, too good for him, holding him, sliding wetly up and down, her eyes shining up at him, full of love and playfulness… Just as he reached the point of no return, the image morphed, and instead he saw the flood of Mairon's flame-red hair, Mairon's practiced lips wrapped around him, Mairon's amber gaze holding his, laughing as he clutched Maeglin's hips and forced him deeper, unrelenting, until he'd milked every drop of Maeglin’s seed and spat it on the stones.

Maeglin shuddered and stared at the come coating his hand in disgust. The lingering pleasure seemed like a bad joke. He reached for his shirt and wiped his hand clean—he needed to wash his clothes properly anyway. He lay back and tried to erase the sight. It was what he deserved. He should never have dared to sully her memory like that. He didn't know if it had happened that way in truth or only in dark dreams—Mairon wearing Idril's face, promising him the real thing, for the little price of Gondolin—just as he'd never known if his love for Idril was a deep rot inside him, as others seemed to think, or the one bright thing that had kept him living. Trust Sauron to ruin even this little indulgence. Well. He wouldn't let Sauron take this from him, but…he'd try not to think of Idril again. Not when he’d destroyed her world. He dashed away his tears and forced himself up. Today he had something to keep him busy, and he wanted it more than ever.

It didn't take long to anneal the platter, heating it red-hot and quenching it, and beat it over a smooth rock, bringing up the sides to a better depth and angle. Celegorm wandered over and made lunch while he worked.

“You gonna head out with that soon?” he asked.

“I’d like to.”

“Do you want company?”

Maeglin considered. Celegorm rarely felt like an intruder on his solitude, and he might get nervous alone in the woods. For that matter, there might be very real dangers he didn't know to watch for. “It'll be awfully boring.”

“Nah. You're sticking to the river, right? I'll find a spot to fish.”

“Oh. In that case, yes. I’d like that.”

They walked together upriver until Maeglin found the sort of gravel bar he was looking for, and he settled in, filling his pan and shaking it, letting the water carry away the silt while the heavier rocks and gems gathered in the center. Everything else was subsumed as he focused on his hunt, leaving his mind blessedly clear and unburdened. A little handful of sapphires and spinel filled his pouch on the bank while a much larger pile of rejected rock mounded beside it.

“How's it going?” Celegorm asked.

Maeglin jumped, and realized his pants were soaked through where he’d ended up kneeling in the water, and his neck and shoulders ached. The Sun was sitting much lower. “Good. I've found some nice stones.”

“I'm about to head back, but you can stay if you want.”

“I can come back tomorrow?”

“Yeah, of course. You can do what you want. You don't need my permission.”

“Right. Yeah. I think…I’d better rest, then.” He gathered up his things. “Was it good fishing?” Celegorm had a couple of little trout on a string.

“It's always good on a day this pretty, whether I catch much or not.”

Maeglin smiled to be friendly, but he found it didn't feel forced at all. His heart was light, and he let himself start thinking about all the things he could make, how the many shades of blue would look with his pair of pink sapphires among them, whether silver would set them off better than gold. “I wish I had a place to cut these,” he mused aloud. 

“You'd be more than welcome in Curufin's workshop. Any time. Or Celebrimbor's—you were friends, weren't you? He'd be thrilled to see you again.”

The bright and warm feeling in his chest snuffed out. “No. They must think I'm evil. I…I _am_. If Celebrimbor hadn't left when he did*…I…I’d’ve killed him too. They both must hate me.”

Celegorm was watching him with an expression Maeglin couldn't place. “I don't think they hate you,” he said gently. But he dropped the topic.

Maeglin kept to himself, brooding, until they’d eaten the fish and sat by the fire in companionable silence. “I didn't want to do it,” he said suddenly, his need outweighing his desire to keep his feelings hidden. “Gondolin. I never went out intending to betray them. I had little enough love for most of them, but I never wanted any of them to suffer. Not even Tuor.”

Celegorm held his gaze steadily. “I believe you.”

“Really?”

Celegorm nodded. 

Maeglin sidled closer. “They tortured me.”

“I figured. There’s only so much anyone can withstand, Maeglin. That doesn’t make you evil.”

“He threatened…I thought…it was _confusing,_ and I hurt so much all the time, and I was so scared…”

Celegorm held an arm out, and Maeglin crept towards him until he could curl into his side and hide his face in his shoulder. “I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you again.”

Maeglin cried. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to. I tried to tell them, I tried to warn them, I couldn’t, I couldn’t make myself do it, I’m such a coward.” Celegorm held him close, his arms like a bulwark against the night. “I tried, I swear, every time it was like he was looking right at me, and I knew he’d see and he’d hurt me for it. I’d stand outside Turgon’s office; I would even—I’d be holding little Eärendil, before Idril decided I could never touch him again, and I’d almost lean down and whisper it in his ear, before the dread took me. I’m sorry, I know you won’t want me, not a coward who can’t even—”

“Maeglin. Hush. You say what you need to, but don’t call yourself names. That’s not fair. You did your best, I know it. That’s all anyone can ask.”

“But it wasn’t enough. My best wasn’t good enough.”

“I know. I know, and it sucks.” 

Looking up, Maeglin saw tracks of tears on Celegorm’s face. He traced them with wondering fingers, afraid to ask what brought them on. “You’ve done awful things too.”

“Yes, and with worse cause.” 

“What do you do?”

“First of all, I took the time I needed to actually be well. Mostly well. Then…I had to go and take responsibility for what I’d done, and spend time in service to repay the people I’d wronged.”

“Did that make it stop hurting?”

“It helped. But Maeglin, I don’t know if you even owe that. Things you did under compulsion…it’s not your own actions. Not your choice. It sounds like you were as much a victim as anyone.”

“Then why do I feel like there’s blood on my hands?”

Celegorm didn’t have an answer for that, but he held Maeglin by the flickering firelight. When Maeglin’s eyes were drifting shut, he begged Celegorm not to leave him alone, and he fell asleep sandwiched between Celegorm and Huan, feeling for the first time since before Angband that it was possible he could be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In this AU, Celebrimbor joined Turgon as one of his last remaining family members after the Nirnaeth and lived in Gondolin for a time. Turgon sent him as his emissary to Sirion with some final messages before the gates were destroyed and Gondolin was completely cut off from the outside world, so he wasn't there for its fall.


	5. Blood and Black Wool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter in end notes to avoid spoilers for those who don't want them

Maeglin whistled one of Celegorm's tunes that was stuck in his head as he walked along the riverbank with his pan in one hand and his pouch of gems in the other. He’d found a large sapphire of a good clear blue today that he was particularly pleased with. By the end of the summer, he hoped to have enough to trade for tools, though he wasn’t sure what branch of his craft he'd want to focus on. In a separate, smaller bag, he kept a few he was saving for himself. Even if he couldn't look his mother in the face, he thought he might make a gift to send her, a brooch or a hairpin, something to say _“yes, I'm alive, and I still love you”_ for him, since he couldn't do it himself. Yet. Maybe someday.

He was contemplating vining leaves and swirls of silver filigree when he spotted the swatch of black wool cloth caught on a thorn. He knew that weave; he’d seen it not six weeks ago. Reaching for it with shaking hands, he freed it from the bramble and looked at it closer. It hadn’t faded; it hadn’t been here long. The edges were cut, not torn. It was just by the trail he’d been walking every day, and yet he'd seen no one. Neither had Celegorm, or even Huan. The message was easy to read. This hadn't been left by accident. His father was watching. He was watching, and no one would ever catch him or stand in his way. Maeglin ran for the camp and safety, his legs making the choice for him. He was breathing hard, his eyes brimming with tears. No one was there. Celegorm must have gone to hunt, or whatever else he did off in the woods alone. He'd taken his horse.

Maeglin was light-headed, and he realized his breath was coming too fast now, though it felt like he was barely getting any air. He tried to slow it and couldn't. His mind whirled through the possibilities. He could flee on his own. Eöl would find him. He was probably watching only by night, but Maeglin wouldn't be able to hide his tracks that well. He could tell Celegorm—no. Never. He'd try to save him, and Eöl would kill him for getting in his way, as surely as he'd killed Naneth. Sure, he'd beaten him that first night, but Eöl would be prepared now with poison and subterfuge. Maeglin couldn't bear being the cause of Celegorm’s death, too. 

He would never go back to Eöl. And that left just one choice. He took the bundle of clothes his mother had made and the stone knife he'd fashioned with Celegorm and went back outside. Celegorm would find his body anyway, but it didn't seem right for it to be waiting for him in the tent. He sat beneath a tree and rested his fingertips on the embroidered edge of the tunic. _I'm sorry, Naneth. I wish I could have seen you one last time._ He doubted Námo sent anyone back twice. He sighed. If he thought about it much longer, he'd lose his nerve, and it was this or eternal thralldom to Eöl. He held no illusions that life with his father would be anything else.

The edge of the flint was as sharp as any knife he'd forged. Sharper, maybe. He'd helped patch up enough battlefield wounds to know where the arteries were, and he aimed for them, forcing his knife swiftly and deeply into his forearm. He lay down with his head pillowed on the tunic, weeping as his blood ran into the earth. Everything was growing cold and distant. Far off he heard howling, and had just time to recognize Huan's tones before the world went dark.

*

“Hang in there, don't do this to me, kid.”

*

His head throbbed agonizingly and so did his arm, and he couldn't remember why that was all wrong.

*

Something weighed on his chest. Mairon was there, holding a cup to his lips, water laced with opium, murmuring in his soft, sweet voice that he knew it hurt, he was so sorry, he wished he didn't have to, it was over now, Maeglin could rest, but wouldn’t he please think about talking and not put them both through this anymore… _Lies. All of it, lies._ But how did he know that…?

*

Pain always returned in Angband eventually. He wondered why Mairon had started torturing him before he was even awake. Usually he made him have a thorough look at whatever implements he'd chosen, gave him time for his imagination to begin the work and a chance to speak and forestall it. Maeglin never did. Perhaps that was why he’d changed tactics… What was Mairon doing? His arm was on fire, and it _itched…_

*

“Please don't fade. Whatever it is, I promise I'll help you; we’ll find a way to make it better…”

“Mairon? Are you there? Please just let me go. Please…”

He heard crying, and a lullaby softly murmured through tears. He thought his mother had sung it once. 

*

Maeglin opened his eyes. He was not dead, and he was not in Angband. Sun shone faintly through familiar stretched hides above him. The weight on his chest was Huan's head, and Maeglin suddenly wondered how long he’d been out and if the dog had moved at all. Celegorm was asleep beside him. _No._ He started to panic as memory returned. _This can't be. I needed to die!_

“Peace, little one,” spoke a deep, rumbling voice. A huge, gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. Maeglin tilted his head back and swallowed hard. He saw antlers, a mane of unruly hair, furs and a necklace of animal teeth, deep dark eyes that looked upon him kindly. 

“Lord Oromë?” he whispered.

“That’s me. I need you to lie still and rest. Everything will be well.”

“How long…?”

“It's been a fortnight since we found you. Lady Estë herself came and tended your wounds, but your fëa, it seems, had a hard time deciding whether to stay or to go.”

“No. No, I...” His mouth was so dry he couldn’t focus. “Can I…have some water?” The words were hard to get out and brought with them visions of Angband, all the times Mai— _Sauron_ had smiled sadly and shaken his head, leaving him in chains to whimper, trying not to cry and waste what moisture his body had left.

“I have something better. Just a moment.” Oromë stepped outside, and Maeglin’s heart raced, wondering if he'd be abandoned, but he returned with a cup of something that smelled delicious, and he propped Maeglin up in one arm and held the cup to his lips. Maeglin immediately reached for it, but dropped his right arm with a gasp at the sudden pain. 

“Easy, there. Even with Estë's help, your body will need some time. That cut was deep.” Maeglin took the cup in his left hand and drank. It was the best broth he had ever tasted, warm and slightly salty and full of flavor, though Maeglin couldn't have said what it was made from.

Celegorm stirred, muttering something, then snapped awake, sitting up and taking in the scene at once. “Why didn't you wake me?!” he growled at Oromë. 

“Love, you've hardly slept at all. You needed all you could get.” 

Sighing, Celegorm turned to Maeglin. “Didn't know if you would make it. You scared me.”

“Sorry.” It came out raspy and weak, and Maeglin remembered unwillingly how he’d feared in his mother's last hours, as he watched by her sickbed, his dread deepening as the healers scrambled for antidotes too late. “I'm sorry. Didn't want to hurt you. I meant it to all be over.”

Celegorm clasped his fingers gently, careful not to disturb his arm. “That would've hurt too, you know.”

“Not too much,” Maeglin murmured softly. The world was feeling hazy. “I wasn’t here before, and no one missed me. I'd be…a little interlude. Short, here and then gone before you get tired of me. Like a song you hear once and never again…”

“Void damnit.” Celegorm's swearing was far away. Hands were pressed to his forehead, then a warm cloth. It felt nice. 

*

He was too hot, sweating, and that was odd. Angband was cold, at least the parts where he was kept. Even on the nights he was permitted a blanket (it was so much worse when Mairon had to take it away again), it was never quite enough. He couldn't wrap his mind around where else he might be. It slowly came back to him. Free, but not free. A traitor to his people. Death stood over them all, and none of them knew it. He deserved to die.

Maybe he'd fallen asleep in the forges again. Sometimes Rog found him there, slumped beside his anvil, and moved him to a cot, wrapped a blanket around him. Rog's blankets always kept him warm. He rubbed his eyes and wondered why his other arm felt so stiff and achy. _No. Rog died because of me._ “Celegorm? Oromë?”

“I'm here.” Celegorm sounded immeasurably tired.

 _I'm sorry,_ Maeglin thought. _I couldn’t even do this right._ “It's so hot.”

“Yep. Tryin' to keep you alive. Can't stop you from going if you're bound and determined, but I can make it harder.”

“Well at this point, all you're doing is making me remember Mandos more fondly. At least it was cool there.”

“Was that a joke, Maeglin? I think it was. A grouchy joke, but a joke nonetheless.” He laid the back of his hand against Maeglin's forehead. “You do feel about right.” He opened up the tent to let in a breeze and removed several heated waterskins from around Maeglin's bed, then offered him some water. 

Maeglin sipped it carefully. It was flavored with rosehips and honey. “I didn't think you could stop people from fading.”

“Often you can’t. Especially if it's slow. But if you can get them through the initial crisis, it's possible. I watched enough of my people die after they'd lost someone in battle. Figured some things out. Your body drops its temperature and tries to shut down. Keeping you warm and some kind of food in you can do wonders.”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“Do you really? Or do you want whatever the problem is to be gone?”

“You can't fix everything,” Maeglin snapped, surprised and resentful at Celegorm's harsh tone.

“You know, if you wanted to be sure, that's not the way to do it. Although you did manage to hit an artery, which is more than the vast majority of the people I've known to try this.”

“So what should I have tried?”

“Talking to me?”

“I meant—”

“I know what you fucking meant.” He ran his fingers through his hair, which was far more disheveled than usual, and Maeglin felt another pang of guilt. “You could've really ruined your hand. Estë had to reattach tendons. Without her, you'd never use it again. I’m well aware of how much you can do one-handed, but I think smithcraft might be difficult.”

“I didn't expect to need it where I was going.”

“I thought you were doing better.”

“So did I.” Huan lay half atop him, and though he was hot too, Maeglin didn't have the heart to push him away. He stroked his head, digging his fingertips into his thick fur.

Celegorm reached over and checked his temperature again. He seemed relieved. “Can you tell me what was so awful it was worth dying for?”

Maeglin felt for his pocket, but his clothes had been changed. “Look in the pocket of the pants I had on.”

It took Celegorm a minute, but he found the scrap of cloth. “This?” He peered at it closely. “Oh. Eöl.”

“He knows where I am,” Maeglin whispered. “I didn't want to go with him, and I couldn't let him kill you.”

“Aww, kid.” Celegorm scooped him into an awkward hug. “I don't need you to die for me, okay? I promised I'd keep you safe, and I mean to do it.”

“But…he…he could be watching right now.”

“Nah. Didn't know what was up, so we moved you the moment it was safe. Unless he can track Oromë himself, he's back to nothing.”

“He'll find me again. He won't give up.” Maeglin slumped back against the pillow, staring bleakly at the shadows of branches above him. “Everyone's better off if I'm dead anyway. This was a bad idea. People always die around me. Everyone I ever cared about. I don't want to keep killing people.”

“Whoa. No one's getting killed here. And you sure as hell aren't responsible for your asshole dad. Look. Your mother wants you here. I want you here. I like having you around. You make my life better.”

“Not so much this last fortnight,” Maeglin murmured. 

“It’s...been a few more days since then. I'd still rather have you here than not.”

“Why? Why do you even care?”

“You're my family.”

“Eöl is my family,” Maeglin said flatly.

“Is he, though? Family are the people who care about you. Who want you to be happy and don't do awful shit to force you into things. The people who are there for you.”

“That's bad logic. You can't say you care because you’re family and then you're family because you care. It's a circular argument. Basic fallacy.”

“You’d get on with Caranthir. I should introduce you.”

Maeglin snorted.

“There's things we can do,” Celegorm said more seriously. “Keep on the move. Go farther away. Stay in Oromë's hunting lodge, if you can take being around more people. He hasn't really… _done_ anything yet, but Oromë will be watching, and the second he does, he'll be answering to the Valar. Okay? It isn't hopeless.”

“I…” Maeglin choked up and couldn't speak.

“I know it takes time to decide you can trust someone, but I really wish you'd just come to me first. Let me help you, okay? Maybe don't jump straight to a dramatic death as your first solution next time? I can't do anything if you don't tell me what's going on.”

Maeglin sighed.

“Maeglin. I need a 'yes, I understand, I won't do it again.’ Please.”

Maeglin looked at him and saw the deep concern in his eyes, in the weariness written on his features. He wondered again why Celegorm bothered to feel so much. He knew he wasn't worth it, but it warmed him inside. “I don't think I can promise that. But I'll try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for attempted suicide and discussion of suicide


	6. Pillows and Fur

Three days had passed since Maeglin woke, and he hadn’t been out of bed for more than five minutes at a time. The knot of dread in his chest was no longer all-consuming, but it wouldn't go away. Time slipped by without his notice; he'd be watching the play of morning light on the walls of the tent, then he'd roll over and realize the day was nearly done. Huan stayed beside him, lying snug against his back or resting his head on his chest. The weight was familiar and comforting. Sometimes he'd come in, tail wagging, with a bone or a stick and nudge Maeglin's hand, waiting expectantly, but when Maeglin made no move to take it, he'd drop it with a little huff and lay down again beside him.

Celegorm made him eat and stretch the fingers of his healing arm, but after Maeglin snapped at him a few times to stop bothering him, he mostly let him be. Maeglin wondered briefly if that was wise, but decided it was better if Celegorm didn't like him so much anyway. He'd let them get attached, and that was always a bad idea. Maybe if he lay here long enough, he would fade anyway, and this time it would be the slow wasting that Celegorm could do nothing about.

He was drawing circles in Huan's fur and imagining how happy Turgon would look at hearing the news of his second death. He would try not to show it, of course, in that kingly way of his, but Maeglin could see all the little tells that no one else would notice. Celegorm interrupted his daydreaming, looking far too cheery for him to stomach. 

“Hey, Maeglin, how about a trip down to the creek to get you cleaned up?”

“Fuck off.” He turned away and pulled the furs over his head.

“You'll feel better. It's the kind of day you'll like. Cloudy and not too hot.”

“He'll find me. You didn't even know he was there before. Some woodcraft.”

“Oromë's put his own enchantments around our camp this time. We're well hidden.”

Maeglin didn't answer.

“Okay then. Would you let me wash your hair? And maybe braid it? No going outside required?”

Maeglin turned back and looked at him. Handling another's hair was for very close family or the most intimate of servants. Even the question felt a little invasive. But his hair was tangled and greasy and gross, and now that he'd thought of it, the feeling wasn’t going away. He knew he couldn't manage with his arm still hurting. “All right.” He hated how vulnerable it felt.

Soon Celegorm had everything ready—water heated, the bigger cooking pot dragged inside for a basin, furs and pillows arranged so that Maeglin could lean back effortlessly while he washed. The hot water and soap and Celegorm's fingers gently massaging his scalp felt better than they had any right to, and Maeglin slowly relaxed. Celegorm worked a sweetly fragrant oil into his hair and rinsed it again, and Maeglin braced himself, realizing he was about to comb out three weeks’ worth of tangles and knots. 

“You’re…really good at this,” he said in surprise when the pain never came. “Almost everyone who's ever combed it pulls my hair, and when I tell them it hurts, they laugh and say they aren't pulling and I'm being too sensitive. I stopped letting anyone touch it as soon as I could.” Turgon hadn't laughed like Eöl; he'd been too grave and sad when he’d helped Maeglin dress for his mother's funeral, but he'd patted his shoulder and gone right on. It seemed like such a small and insignificant thing after the torments he’d suffered, but to the child he'd been it wasn't.

“Curufin was just like you as a kid.” Celegorm had gotten even gentler, if that was possible. “He'd cry whenever Atya or Ammë tried to comb his hair. It drove them nuts, especially Atya--he'd work so hard to do it carefully enough, and he just couldn't. Maedhros and I were the only ones he could tolerate.”

Maeglin allowed himself a moment of wistfulness, wishing he'd grown up surrounded like that by people who could look out for him and shield him. “I let Tyelpë braid it once. He was really gentle, too. But then he was gentle in a lot of ways.” 

“That's Tyelpë for you.” 

“Umm…how is he, now?” Maeglin knew he was alive; Celegorm had mentioned him a few times, but he also remembered some of the awful things he’d seen in Vairë's tapestries. 

“He’s…getting by. Do I need to tell you how he died?”

“I saw enough. I don't expect Sauron’s grown any kinder over the years.”

Celegorm nodded. “It was a while before he could get back to smithwork, I understand. He has a quiet little place and found some of his old friends from the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. I think he'll always be a bit broken-hearted over the person he thought Sauron was. He deceived him into what he believed was love for a long time, and that's been hard to get over. But he's a lot better than when I first saw him again.”

“Did he…” Maeglin had heard the story of how Tyelpë had repudiated his own father at the gates of Nargothrond, but he’d also held him, comforting him while he cried over how much he missed him. “I mean…he's talking to you now, I guess.”

“And his father, too. We've all made our peace.”

“I'm glad.”

“I know he'd like to see you—”

“No.”

Celegorm didn't press. Maeglin tucked his knees to his chest and waited for his hair to finish drying while Celegorm emptied the soapy water and cleaned up. “Oromë's coming back this evening,” he said as he sat behind Maeglin and separated his hair into strands.

“Oh. So that's why you wanted me to look decent.”

Celegorm snorted. “Kid, he's been here through the worst of it. Trust me, he doesn't care how you look. I just want you to be able to feel a bit more like yourself.”

“I've been keeping you away from him, haven't I?”

“Not really. I mean, I'd've chosen to help you even if it did mean being separated a while, but I go off alone for weeks at a time anyway. I like time to myself. Time to hear my own thoughts. Makes it that much sweeter when he and I come together again.”

“Then I've been keeping you from your solitude.”

“You must be unstoppable when you pick a goal that isn't tearing yourself down. Just as stubborn as your mother.” Celegorm finished the single long braid that fell down Maeglin’s back and tied off the end. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” Maeglin ran the silky black hair through his fingers. “Don't you ever miss just being around people?”

“Sometimes. Then I go hang out with the Hunt, or I make the trip to Tirion and spend some time with my brothers.”

“I see.”

“Do _you_ miss other people?”

“No. I like being alone.” The words came to his lips with ease, despite not being true. After a moment, he decided perhaps Celegorm had earned his honesty. “There aren't a lot of people I feel comfortable around. Never have been. I wish there were.” He could sense Celegorm's concern and pity without even looking up and instantly regretted speaking. “Sorry. You don’t need to listen to me wallow.”

Celegorm opened his mouth but paused, as if he wasn't sure how to answer. Outside, hoofbeats drummed the earth and stopped short, but before he could panic, Maeglin heard a cheerful shout. “Ho, Tyelko!”

Celegorm's face lit up, and he scrambled to his feet, beaming like a child who’d just been promised cake. Cautiously Maeglin peeked out and saw the Great Hunter leap down from his horse and scoop Celegorm into his arms, lifting him off his feet with the strength of his embrace. He caught Maeglin watching and smiled. “Maeglin! How goes it? I have news!” He beckoned for Maeglin to join them, and Maeglin reluctantly emerged and sat beside Oromë on a grassy rise while Celegorm took charge of the horse. 

“I’m glad to see you up and about. How’re you feeling?”

Maeglin shrugged. “My arm’s better, I guess.”

“The rest will come with time.” Oromë studied him thoughtfully. “I've spoken with the other Valar, and after hearing about what you and your mother endured at Eöl's hands, they've agreed his current actions toward you are threatening. He's been warned not to seek you out or approach you in any way.”

“I…suppose that's good, but…” Maeglin hesitated, afraid to contradict a Vala. “You understand that won't stop him, right?”

“I do. It seems he has his mind set on you as his quarry. If— _when_ —he breaks the command he's been given, he'll be banished to the little stretch of forest he calls home. But until then, we must be watchful and wary. Your uncle and I are going to keep you safe. Don't fear.”

Before he could stop himself, Maeglin grabbed Oromë's shirt, pulling him close. “You can't let any harm come to Celegorm because of me. That matters to me more.” Looking at the fabric crumpled in his hand, he let go as if he'd been burned.

Oromë leaned in and laid an approving hand on his shoulder. “Celegorm knows what he's about. But I take care of my own. You needn't fear for him either.” This close, Maeglin was overwhelmed with Oromë's presence. The smells of birch sap and evergreens, of horses and sweat and leather mingled and surrounded him, though scent was a poor way to describe something he felt in his bones. It reminded him of being wrapped in Celegorm's arms, and for a moment, he could breathe, despite feeling so exposed in the open.

“There’s something else I’d like to discuss,” Oromë began as Celegorm came back and sat with them. “I know Huan's been a great help to you.”

Maeglin nodded. He couldn't imagine the last few days without Huan's steady presence at his side.

“I’d like to bring you a dog of your own. Not a young puppy; one who's old enough to work, to learn how to be there for you. To calm you when you’re afraid. To guard you when you’re alone.”

“I…” Part of Maeglin wanted to say yes, but his mind was throwing up a hundred reasons why he couldn't accept. “I don't know. I don't think I'm a dog person.”

Celegorm raised an eyebrow at that. “If you're worried about care, or training, or…not being here to look after one, I'll be around to help. Or to find another home, if that were necessary.”

“It's not…I just…” He swallowed hard. He hadn’t entertained many thoughts about a future he wasn’t sure he'd ever have, but he made himself look ahead now. “If…I don't want to live alone in the forest forever…I know you can just walk into courts and the chambers of kings with a gigantic hound at your side, but…I couldn't. I’d feel like I stood out. Attracted too much attention. And…if it weren't big enough to intimidate people…they'd think it was cute. They'd want to pet it all the time. And…that's a different kind of attention, but I couldn't handle it either.” 

He glanced up, afraid they'd be laughing at him, but both Celegorm and Oromë were nodding encouragingly. They looked attentive and sympathetic, and he drew a deep breath and went on. “And then…if I ever were to…to try and…make some kind of amends to Turgon…and his people…” He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, hiding his face while he tried to keep his breath slow and even. “I don't know what that might look like, and if I were used to having a dog with me, and then I couldn't, when I needed it most…”

“I don't see any reason he'd do that to you—”

“But you can't know,” Maeglin interrupted.

“But it bothers you, and that's good enough,” Celegorm finished. “I'll have to think about this.”

*

Maeglin decided that with Oromë there, being outside wasn't so terrifying, and so he sat, leaning against a tree, watching a pair of crows squabble over a berry patch, while Celegorm and Oromë cooked together over the fire, jostling each other and stealing kisses and laughing about it. When night fell, he lay awake a long time, wondering what had possessed him to think of facing Turgon. He couldn't do it. There was no point imagining it. And Celegorm had insisted he shouldn't have to. But if anything was to exist on the other side of this—if there was some future where he didn't give up and die, where his father didn't drag him away to a life of misery, where he managed to find the strength to live among others once more—the simple fact was that the only way forward he could see lay through Turgon. He couldn't avoid him forever.

“Oh fuck, Oromë, yes!”

_Hellfires of Angband._ Maeglin pulled his pillow over his head. They must have waited until they thought he'd be asleep, and it was obvious they were trying to keep their volume down, but they hadn't gone off that far, and Celegorm…clearly wasn’t the quiet type. His moans quickly grew less restrained, and they mingled with low, throaty growls that must've been Oromë.

“C’mon, harder— _fuck!”_

Maeglin gave up on the pillow. It wasn't enough. At least it sounded like they were enjoying themselves. He allowed his thoughts to stray to Idril and all the pleasures he’d hoped to offer her someday. He wondered if Tuor was still making her happy as he never had. _She chose not-me long before she chose him,_ he reminded himself harshly as his jealousy rose. He flopped onto his side and tried to block out the sounds once more. It was almost unbearable to hear their easy joy, when he knew he'd lost the chance of having that kind of closeness with anyone, even if he could somehow blot out his feelings for Idril. No one would take the Traitor of Gondolin to their bed.

Finally the moans and cries ceased.

“…just don't like it. I don't see the signs, whatever. But not a single bird or squirrel felt like warning me? It doesn't feel right.”

Maeglin went from desperately trying to sleep to fully alert in an instant. 

“He walks softly, and the trees love him.”

“Are you not Lord of the Trees? Does he have so much favor with you?”

“You know it's not so simple. My personal protection is on you here, but I can't take away the respect he's earned from the forest. He’s ancient and cunning, and he knows well how to bend the wood to his will. You'll have to remember you can't count on anything but your own senses.”

_Well that's not comforting at all._ Their voices went on, but Maeglin didn't try to make out the rest. If there was more to worry about, he didn't want to know.


	7. Onyx and Mithril

“How far is it safe to go?” Maeglin asked Celegorm, his pan dangling from his fingertips. Being sick of lying around had finally outweighed the daunting prospect of doing anything. Oromë had disappeared again after spending a day or so helping Celegorm with tasks around camp and prowling through the little territory they’d claimed, and while Maeglin had told himself he would stay in the tent and not risk showing himself, he could no longer keep it up.

“You’ve got about a quarter-mile radius from here. Around the edges the enchantment will be weaker, but unless you and he somehow turn up at the same place at the same time, that shouldn’t matter.”

“Okay. So a good stretch of the creek should be fine?”

“Sure. Take Huan with you.”

Maeglin nodded and headed that way. Huan trotted to catch up and quickly outpaced him. The mossy banks felt pleasantly soft under his bare feet. The creek ran clear and invitingly, falling over boulders into little pools. Startled frogs leapt off the rocks, plopping into the water with fat round splashes as he passed. But as he began sampling gravels, digging down to the bedrock and emptying crevices to check what had been trapped, working steadily upstream, it became apparent that nothing was there to be found. He hadn't come up with so much as a single fleck of gold. 

He dragged himself back to camp as the sun was setting, exhausted and disheartened. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d come home empty-handed from a day of prospecting, but never had he run through all his options and had nowhere left to explore. 

“No luck?” Celegorm asked when he caught sight of him.

Maeglin shook his head. “How far did we come from the old camp?”

“I dunno exactly. Forty or fifty miles, I’d guess.”

“Are we even in the same watershed?!”

“Maeglin. I don't know anything about rocks and ores and what washes from where. But I do think it's more important to put enough distance between you and Eöl than it is to be near your gem deposits.”

“It is. Of course it is. Sorry.” Maeglin wiped the sweat from his face. “Just. I feel so…useless without a pick or a hammer in my hands. Empty. Aimless. I—I'm sorry.”

“Hey. It’s all right.” Celegorm steered him to the fireside and heaped a plate for him of trout and baked tubers. “Do you want my thoughts, or do you need time to be angry and frustrated about it?”

“Both?” The trout was rich and tender and melted in his mouth, and there were little golden chanterelles with it. Maeglin closed his eyes and took a moment to appreciate the taste and the warmth and the way it filled him. “What are you thinking?”

“So correct me if I'm wrong, but the reason you don't want to ask Tyelpë or Curufin if you can work in their forges is that you're afraid they'll think badly of you, and you care too much for their opinions to know it for sure.”

Maeglin nodded cautiously.

“How about people whose opinions don't matter to you? It's not large or fancy or well-equipped, and you can't do your gem cutting or your fine goldwork there, but there is a little forge out back behind Oromë’s lodge. It mostly gets used for straightening out bent spearheads or grinding nicks out of hunting knives, but—” 

“I could do those things,” Maeglin whispered.

“I'm sure you could, and way better than any of us. And I reckon if you were keeping folks’ gear up in style, they'd be happy to feed you and make sure you had iron to mess with. Wouldn't have to rely on me if you didn't want to, though you're always more than welcome. And there's good maps, and people who can help you track down your gems and ores if you tell them what signs you're looking for.”

“And they won't know who I am?”

“Can't promise that. But the Hunt aren't judgmental folk, and I don't think we have anyone from Gondolin, except once in a great while.”

“I think…maybe…” It seemed just enough within the realm of possibility that he could entertain the notion, prodding at it, testing how it felt. Of course everyone had heard his name and the stories by now. He didn't want to hide who he was. But Celegorm was right; he could weather some disdain from people he’d never known or been desperate to please. People who had nothing against him personally, only on principle.

“There is a catch. Your momma does ride with us at times. Might be hard to hide from her once she gets wind of where you are.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure he felt the same instant revolt he had before at the idea. The depths of his sorrow when he lay dying without having seen her had never entirely left him, and he couldn't face that again.

Celegorm kept his eyes on the fire, sparing him the misery of revealing his pain. “You know,” he said gently. “She sent me because she cares about you an awful lot.”

“I—I'll have to think about it,” he stammered, and fled into the tent.

*

An empty cage was bound to Nahar's saddle when Oromë rode up again. Maeglin looked up from the hide he was scraping, but didn't rise. The repetitive task was soothing, and he didn't want to hear how everything was just fine. Nothing had changed, and it wasn't fine so long as he couldn't go anywhere for fear of alerting his father and bringing danger down on himself and the only friend he had in the world. Oromë approached him anyway.

“I've brought you something, Maeglin. Since you didn't think a dog was right for you. Now, you don't have to take them if you don't want, but I do ask that you give them a chance.”

Maeglin was growing interested despite himself.

From somewhere under his cloak, Oromë produced a pair of rats. One was a satiny black, and the other was white with patches of blue-grey. Maeglin's eyes widened in wonder.

“I know it's a little strange, but they're very intelligent and affectionate animals, and I think it's worth trying to look past—” 

“They're for me?” Maeglin interrupted breathlessly.

Oromë grinned. “They’re yours.” He passed them gently into Maeglin’s outstretched hands, and for a moment, he forgot everything else, absorbed in their soft fur and twitching noses and tiny ears and toes. They were curious and unafraid, sniffing him and exploring, letting themselves be cradled and petted and kissed on the tops of their heads.

“Tyelko's going to be insufferable. I didn't really think you'd like them.”

Maeglin glanced up. “I love them. Thank you so much.”

“They’re not meant just to be pets. They know already they’re here to help you however you need, and you'll have our assistance training them. They can't do the same tasks a dog could, but they can keep you company and always be near, and we thought you wouldn't have much trouble with people wanting to touch them.” 

A lopsided smile stretched Maeglin's lips. “They might even keep people from trying to get too close at all. That's perfect. That's so perfect. I wish I'd thought of it myself.”

*

Maeglin named the black rat Onyx and the white and grey one Mithril, and the next few days he could almost call happy. He set up their cage with spaces to nest and to climb, but they spent little time in it. They liked to ride on his shoulders, especially when he had treats. But he kept thinking how little Eärendil would have squealed and begged to see them, too young to have learned to associate them with Morgoth and the plagues he used them to spread among the Edain. He wondered if Idril would have liked them too. She'd been fond of her songbirds, and gentle with the small and meek. Perhaps she'd have looked on them kindly with those deep and sparkling eyes, as he'd always wished she would on him.

Maeglin sat by the fire one night with Mithril curled up asleep in his lap. “Would you tell me about you and Lúthien?”

Celegorm put his hand over his face. He took a long time to answer. “That’s really not something I wanna talk about.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry, forget I asked.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well…I don't know of many people who…you know. Wanted someone who didn’t want them back. Or…anyway. Who fell in love with the wrong person and realized it too late to let go.”

“Is this about your parents?”

“No. I…I know they were happy for a while. At first. I was just…thinking about Idril a lot, lately. I dunno. Maybe it’s not the same at all. You seem so perfect with Oromë.”

“Well…yeah. I loved Oromë before we ever left Valinor. But then…you know what all happened; it’s in the histories. I was pretty sure I’d never see him again, not in the flesh, anyway. Blood-frenzy in battle or on the hunt was the closest I’d ever get to touching him again, and…I wasn’t exactly saving myself for a day that wouldn’t come. So when the opportunity showed up…it was a good match, politically. Finally force Thingol to think about the rest of us and help us win the damn fight? Think how different the Nirnaeth would’ve gone, with Doriath backing us. I wanted that. And Curufin couldn’t marry her; he already had a wife he’d left behind. And, y’know, she was hot. And powerful. Smart. Everything I like. She got along with my dog. So it wasn’t exactly a hardship. I don't think it was love though. In the way you’re talking about. It’s not something I’m proud of, just so we’re clear.”

“But she didn’t want you. She loved Beren.”

“That’s right,” Celegorm said, undoing one of his braids and pulling a bone bead off. Blood was caked in it from his hunt earlier. 

“Would you have…have…taken…?”

“Would I have raped her, you mean?”

Maeglin nodded.

The silence was heavy and thick. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Not kicking and screaming, but if I could’ve manipulated her into it to seal a marriage she didn’t want and get us that alliance? Yeah. I would’ve. I’d’ve told myself it was better than letting her get killed on that fool quest of hers, that it was best in the long run for everyone, but…that’s what Curufin would’ve called ‘factors in our decision-making’ and Maedhros would’ve called ‘fucked-up bullshit excuses.’ He always was the most decent of us.”

He rubbed his eyes, which had gone bright and watery. “When it comes right down to it…I’d stopped caring. I couldn’t even say whether I’d stopped thinking of others as people or stopped thinking of myself as a person, but no one else mattered to me, either way. All I wanted was to get the Silmarils so I could lay down that whole fucking mess, all the mistakes and the pain and the tragedy, and walk into the wilds and never look back. I’d’ve done anything for that. I murdered people for it. I betrayed my friend’s trust. I hate what I did. I’d turned into something horrible. Maybe I still am. I don’t know if I’ll ever be done clawing my way back from that.”

“I don’t want to be horrible,” Maeglin whispered.

“Neither do I.” Celegorm started rebraiding his hair, having worked out most of the blood. “Does any of that help at all?”

“I don’t know.” Mithril squeaked in protest, and Maeglin realized he’d been squeezing him with shaking fingers. He let go, and the rat climbed up to nuzzle his chin. He stroked him more carefully, grateful for his warm presence. “I heard what they were saying about me in the Halls. That…that Morgoth offered her to me, and that’s why I gave up the city.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“He did. Or Mairon did, anyway. He said…he could make her love me. And…I wanted that. I really did. But I knew it wasn’t what she’d chosen; she’d already made up her mind about me a long time before, and she didn’t want me. She wouldn’t want that, even if he had some way to do it. Some way that wasn’t just torture. Does it even matter if that’s not why I gave in, when I wanted it and gave in anyway?”

“Shit, Maeglin, I’m no good at these questions. I think what’s in your heart matters, and the effects your actions have on people matter too. That’s all I got.”

“I know I didn’t do right by her before.” His voice was very small. “I kept pushing, trying to get her to notice me, to give me what I wanted, and then…I realized that more and more, when I thought of her, I was thinking of things… _he_ would’ve done—taking her away from the people who distracted her from me, keeping her just for myself, trying to…to _make_ her accept me—and I looked in her eyes one day and saw that she was _scared._ That killed me. I never wanted that. I never wanted to be like Eöl. I tried to just…cut her off, as much as I could, but I still loved her and wanted to be near her, and…I don’t know. I’m sure I came across as cold and demanding and haughty and whatever else they call me. I didn’t know what to do. I threw myself into work. Stopped talking to her when I could avoid it. I didn’t even understand how bad it was between us until I had Eärendil in my arms, with the battle all around us, and I realized she thought I wanted to kill him.” He buried his face in his arms, curling up and sniffling. 

“If you don’t mind me asking…what did you want with her kid?”

“I wasn’t gonna let him die! I’d asked Mairon how many people I could spare. He promised me two. Two plus the bearer of Morgoth’s token could pass through the ranks of orcs and balrogs and go where they pleased. So I grabbed up Eärendil before anyone could hurt him. I’d just shown her the token, and she wouldn’t even let me finish. It was supposed to go to Tuor. He was supposed to get them both out. I guess she did that without my help. She wouldn’t even let me explain.” He shuddered, remembering the long fall he’d spent so much of his life imagining and dreading. “I want to tell her I’m sorry. Do you think that’s awful of me? Wanting to see her again at all?”

“I…would give a lot if I could apologize to Lúthien. I don’t think it’s awful. Not if you mean it and aren’t using it just to get near her.”

“Oh. I guess you couldn’t, after…”

Celegorm shook his head. “She’s just gone, forever.” This time Maeglin put an arm around his uncle. He’d craved that kind of death for so long, something that would take him away from this world completely. He didn’t think he wanted it now. Celegorm chewed at his lip. “Thingol…exacted his due on her behalf. But it isn’t really the same. And…shit. Her grandsons died because of me, and I couldn’t fix that or apologize for it either. If you want my advice…you ask first and make sure she's willing to see you. Then you take that chance if you get it, and you don’t fuck it up with half-measures or excuses.”

Maeglin nodded silently.


	8. Knives and Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning--graphic torture scenes

Maeglin was walking through the dim forest of Nan Elmoth at twilight, hand in hand with his mother. Purple flowers hung in thick festoons from branches overhead. Aredhel had to duck to pass under the vines. A bruise on her cheek was as purple as the blossoms that thickened the air with heavy, sweet fragrance. Maeglin winced and looked away. There had never been bruises before he spoke his first word of Quenya. Before he asked when he could meet the brothers and cousins she told him about in bedtime stories. They came to a wider space between the gnarled trees where they could see a few stars twinkling palely above them. Her white gown shone in their light. Aredhel knelt, the sword she wore at her waist knocking against the ground, and she sang until a velvet-furred mole poked its head up and allowed them to touch it. Little Maeglin had laughed in delight, enchanted, but the Maeglin watching now gazed into his mother's face and saw weariness and sorrow beneath her smile. 

He heard a dog somewhere barking, deep and full-throated, and it broke the hush of the darkness until the dream faded around him. His eyes were damp as he returned to the waking world. He missed her as much as if a part of himself were gone. It would be so easy to reach out and end that pain… He imagined her eyes on him, filling anew with sorrow—disappointment—even recrimination at all the evil he had done. No. That would be more painful still. But…what of her pain? If she missed him as much as Celegorm seemed to think…if her sorrow at being parted was more than her sorrow at his deeds… He didn't know. He couldn't know. He curled into a tight ball and wept, until Onyx’s soft chattering reminded him he had little lives to care for. Opening the cage door, he let both rats out, and they climbed over him, checking his hair and the furs and anything that might have changed in the night. They settled against him, cuddling and licking at his fingers, and he pulled himself together enough to get up and feed them.

 _A distraction would be much better than moping around all day,_ he thought. He'd noticed some good-sized rocks near the creek that were probably chert, and he decided to hunt them out. He might as well practice his flintknapping while he had so little else to occupy his mind. Sticking his knife in his belt and taking a few strips of jerky to eat on the way, he waved good morning at Celegorm, who was cleaning his horse’s tack, and started in the general direction of the rocks, with Onyx riding on his shoulder.

He reached the creek and walked along the bank. The day was pleasant and dim, for which he was grateful. He hadn't bothered to cover his eyes in a while, but the brightest days were still a bit painful. It looked like it might rain later. This section of the creek seemed unfamiliar, and he wondered if he'd already passed the spot he was thinking of. Surely there’d be more flint, even if he had. He glanced back toward camp. He didn't think he'd come too far. A little further, and then if he had no luck, he'd go back. The forest seemed to press closer, and Maeglin realized he'd left the creek behind. _Strange. I never meant to leave it._ He turned toward where he thought it should be. After several paces, he was facing the same trees again, only closer. _No. No no no no no._ He'd stepped into the locus of someone's power, and he was being funneled toward them with every step he took. Eöl had found him.

Maeglin froze in place, thinking fast. Eöl would have noticed his presence the moment he stepped into the trap. At best, several minutes ago. If he kept walking, he'd be led inexorably to the center of the maze. If he hid here, Eöl would soon find him. There was no good way out. Maeglin worried at his lip. Onyx had caught his fear, and was shifting anxiously. He lifted her down from his shoulder and petted her soothingly. “I wish I could speak to you like Celegorm can,” he whispered softly. “His enchantment would never notice you.” 

He wondered how different a rat's mind was from his own. He'd always been especially gifted at osánwë, but he'd never tried it with an animal. He took a deep breath. This wasn't Morgoth; there’d be no pain. No violation. He filled his mind with the image of Celegorm—not just his face, but his laughter; his hands passing out food; the scent of him, horses and evergreens and leather. To that he added himself in danger and a sense of urgency, and holding those ideas together, he tentatively reached out. He felt Onyx’s surprise and curiosity as he touched her, and felt the change as she took in his thoughts. “Please find him,” he whispered as he set her down. She scurried off, and Maeglin rose. He wasn't going to give Eöl the satisfaction of hunting him down while he cowered. He stepped onto the path that opened before him and went to face him.

*

Eöl sat on the lowest bough of a wide-spreading beech, twirling a knife blade between long, nimble fingers. He sheathed it before he looked up and acknowledged Maeglin. “I'm glad you've finally come. I only want to talk. Don't you think your father merits that much consideration?”

“I'm here because you herded me down your path and trapped me, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.”

“You'll hear me out, though? I've been so anxious after your…mishap. I want to know that you're well.”

Maeglin wondered for a moment if he meant it, then decided it didn't matter. “You see that I'm standing. And you’re disobeying the Valar’s order. Leave now and don't return.”

“Just listen. Just for a moment. I know we've had our differences, but I want to put all of that behind us. I'd like you to think about your future. You know you aren't going to be welcomed by most people. That's not me being cruel, that’s how it really is. I've got a lovely little house in the woods. It'll remind you of home. The good old days.”

 _Do you even know how much I came to hate that place?_ Maeglin thought, but he held his silence.

“I've built us a wonderful forge. I thought of you from the start. I hoped you'd rejoin me someday. It's got every tool you could ever want. The perfect place to create. We’d be together.”

Maeglin felt inexplicably drawn in. He could see it in his mind, days of friendly work side by side, a space meant for him, already arranged as he liked best. _What is this? Working under him was misery._ He noticed, almost too late, the tendrils of power twisting around the words, carried on faint notes of Song. “No. Let me go.”

“I've missed you so much. You know you'll have nothing if you refuse. You'll find only heartbreak and despair. At least with me you'll always know how much I care for you.”

A soft growl rose in his throat. He'd resisted Song before, and he could do it again. “If you really cared about me, you'd want me to be happy. You'd want me to make my own choices. Even if you didn't like them. You wouldn't try to shut me away and force me into the little mold of the son you wanted me to be.”

“Oh, Maeglin. You don't understand. I only want what's best for you.”

Maeglin had heard those words before. He closed his eyes and searched for the memory, let the shadows of torment clear his head. He couldn't afford to forget. He couldn't let himself believe it.

_His feet had been beaten with the knotted end of a soaking wet rope until the slightest pressure on his soles was agony, and now he was made to stand, his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck, drawn tight so the slightest movement or attempt to shift and ease his feet threatened to cut off his breath. If he hadn’t been certain that Mairon would never permit him the mercy of death, he would have let his legs collapse beneath him. Instead he fantasized about darkness enclosing him and ending all pain while Mairon wove wickedly sharp needles into his skin—in, then out, take the next, in, then out—forming neatly parallel rows down his arms and his chest. The first he'd eyed nervously, but sighed when it went in with a little aching prick. “That wasn’t so bad.”_

_Mairon gave him that sorrowful, suffering smile. “It will be once we reach a few hundred.”_

_He was right, of course. Maeglin was whimpering, tears running down his cheeks. His skin was burning; he trembled at every new prick. He'd screamed when Mairon forced needles through each nipple, and every time Mairon paused to run a finger delicately down the rows, reawakening the pain, he sobbed and tried not to beg. The worst part was having to hold himself still through it all. When he lost his balance twisting away and choked, Mairon supported him while he gasped for breath, but at the cost of Mairon's hand pressed into his throbbing flesh. “Please. Please stop. You don't have to do this. You said that you cared. You feel sorry for me. You don't want to do it.” He hated being brought to this point, but Mairon never failed to find it._

_“My sweet little smith. I wish we lived in another world where I could treat you as you deserve. I hate this. But I have to. I don't have a choice in it. The best thing for both of us would be to give my master what he wants. Please? It hurts me to see you like this.”_

_“We could escape together.”_

_“You know how to make this end. Just tell me about Gondolin.”_

_“Please. Neither of us have to suffer under him. I'll help you.”_

_“Oh, Maeglin. You don't understand. There's no escape from his power. Not for you, and not for me. The best thing for you is to give in now.”_

“It was all lies,” he whispered to himself. “If you cared, you'd stop hurting me. You’d let me go.”

His father was still talking. Something about his own experience and Maeglin's lack. “And you see, you aren't well. You don't even know what's best or what you really want. You need someone to look out for you. To help you make good choices.”

Maeglin shuddered. That was almost true. _So were most of Mairon's lies._ “Celegorm looks out for me. So does Oromë. So will…so will Naneth. And none of them will try to make me do what I don't want.” He realized he'd stepped forward and silently cursed his weakness.

Eöl's eyes narrowed. “You need someone who isn't more wild beast than Elda. You need your father.”

“Naneth—”

“You think she wants anything to do with you?”

“Celegorm says—”

“Oh, child. You think she doesn't spend every day grieving what she did? You think she doesn't lament that city and all those people she loved so well before you were ever born?”

“What do you mean?” Maeglin whispered.

“I thought it was obvious. If she hadn’t taken the javelin that was meant for you, you would have died instead of her. And you would never have betrayed her city. Did you ever think what guilt she must feel? She doesn't want you. She never wants to see you again. Why else would she send anyone in her place?”

“That's not true.”

“She always wanted to get away from you. You made her life miserable. She was happy in our wood before you came along. She only took you with her so she wouldn't be alone. And then, out of the sheer goodness of her heart, she defended you and killed everyone she really loved.”

“No.” But Maeglin remembered her bruise in his dream. That had been his fault. Everything had been fine before him. _And then I let myself grow twisted until I'm more like him than her. I failed her. She'd be right to hate me…_

“Look, Maeglin, I know the truth hurts, but you don't need her. It hurt to be abandoned by the people I loved most, too. I won't lie. But we can get past this. We can have a happy family again, just you and me.”

Maeglin had slid to his knees. It didn't matter; he couldn't flee anyway. “When were we ever happy? I was never good enough for you. You hated me. You beat me. You threatened me constantly. I don't want anything to do with you.”

“You truly believe that? You don't remember all the good times we had? All the laughs we shared in the forge, the stories and songs on the road together, all the excitement as you discovered new things?” Tears shone in Eöl's eyes, and Maeglin scrambled to think, to wonder if he really had remembered only the worst. If he'd somehow been unfair. “How could my own son not know how much I love him? After…after everything? I always thought we'd have long ages together in sweet twilight, learning and inventing and working in harmony. That's all I ever wanted. And in the end…we had so little time.” 

Maeglin’s heart ached for him despite everything, and he raised his hand to reach out, then stopped himself. He knew better. Eöl had chosen the things that had driven Maeglin and his mother away. Eöl chose to cut them off from their kin. Eöl chose to forbid Aredhel her language and her stories. Eöl chose to beat them and to put Maeglin in chains when he wandered too far. Eöl chose to kill him. And he’d seen this before, too.

_Mairon had dark circles under his eyes and a fading bruise that the collar of his robe didn't fully hide. He'd chained Maeglin’s wrists to the wall above his head and held a knife in his shaking hand. “Please, Maeglin. I don't want to hurt you any more. Please let me stop. Please let me get you out of here. At least you could be free.” His cheeks were wet with tears as he leaned forward and softly kissed Maeglin’s lips. Sighing, he laid his head on Maeglin’s shoulder. Maeglin longed to wrap his arms around him, to hold him and make everything all right. “I'm sorry,” Mairon whispered as he pressed the knife to Maeglin's chest and began to cut, fine shallow lines that wept blood but were never deep enough to scar._

_The door burst open, and Mairon froze. Morgoth himself towered there, filling the room with darkness and cold shadows. Maeglin’s breath caught in his lungs, and he shook in fear. The eerie light of the Silmarils cast a painful glare. “Still nothing, little flame? You've been down here for weeks, pampering our guest instead of getting information. Useless wretch. I told you I was running out of patience.”_

_Every word seemed to vibrate agonizingly throughout Maeglin's aching body. Mairon fell at Morgoth's feet. “Please master, give me more time—”_

_“Why should I, when you've wasted what you had?” He lifted Mairon by his hair and backhanded his face so hard Maeglin was surprised his bones didn't snap._

_Words poured from Maeglin’s mouth unbid. “Please don't hurt him, don't do this—please—”_

_But the blows continued, and his begging went unheard. When Morgoth finally dropped him, Mairon lay in a crumpled pile on the floor, unmoving. “We’ll be doing this again soon if he doesn't talk,” Morgoth told him, and as quickly as he'd come, he was gone._

_Maeglin fought weakly against his chains, knowing it was useless, choking on terrified tears. “Mairon? Can you hear me?”_

_He whimpered and struggled to raise his head. “I'll get you down soon’s I can. Promise.”_

_“I can’t do this any more.” Maeglin’s voice shook. He felt hollow and unreal. “I'm sorry. I—I'll tell him everything. Just promise me I can get Idril and her son out alive.”_

_Every breath Mairon drew sounded forced and painful. “I promise, Maeglin. I promise I'll get you that much.”_

_After, when Morgoth had finished ransacking his open mind, when he had the token in hand, Mairon's frightened expression had changed to a satisfied grin, and horror had dawned on Maeglin as he reclined with perfect ease at the foot of Morgoth’s throne. He purred as Morgoth tenderly pulled his head into his lap and caressed his hair. Sauron smiled at him with too many teeth. “You were such a delightful challenge, little traitor. I'll miss our fun little talks.”_

“I'm not. I'm not going to feel sorry for you when you did it all to yourself.”

But Eöl knelt at his side and put his arm around him. “There, now. You'll feel better about everything once you've come home with me. You're my son; that’s where you belong. It’ll all be better soon.”

Maeglin found himself nodding and leaning on Eöl, preparing to stand. It was time to go home. He was ready for everything to stop hurting, to stop struggling and turn away from the world that hated him. He didn't have to bear their scorn. His mind seemed fuzzy, and he tried to recall why a little, rebellious part of him was screaming inside. Eöl's touch made him shudder. _Mairon's arms were warmer, and his hands more tender. When I wasn’t bound._ He wished Mairon were here instead. He always made the pain go away, in the end. He couldn't remember ever taking comfort from the hands on him now, and the crude attempt felt wrong. 

His arm brushed against the stone blade in his belt as Eöl pulled him up, and he thought of the day he'd made it. _No. I don't have to accept him. No more than I have to long for Mairon. Celegorm cares about me, and he never hurt me. And he's certain he's not alone…_ Maeglin couldn't bring himself to finish that sentence, but he saw their faces. _Naneth. Tyelpë…_ He breathed in, pushing back against the power in Eöl's words. _Tyelpë, I was never as strong as you. But if you could do this to someone you still loved…_ Eöl relaxed his grip for a moment, and Maeglin shoved him violently away. “No. You aren't my father anymore.”

Something in the web Eöl had woven snapped, and Maeglin's head cleared. He heard voices calling, not far off, and the blast of a horn. “Maeglin? Maeglin! Where are you?”

He lifted his head and raised his voice. “Here! I'm here!!”

Eöl scowled, and the knife reappeared in his hand. Maeglin laughed. “Unless you want to fight a Vala, I believe we're done.”

Nahar crashed through the brush to land between them. Oromë swung down before he'd fully stopped, turning toward Eöl with cold fury in his eyes. The baying of hounds seemed to fill the wood, though Maeglin saw only Huan. Celegorm was right behind. “Maeglin! Are you all right?” 

“I am now,” Maeglin grinned. 

“There's a very frightened and very brave rat waiting for you back at camp.”

“Yeah? I need you to ask her what treats she likes best in all the world. That's what I'm giving her.”


	9. Finding the Way Home

Maeglin heard cheerful voices before the long hall came into view. Several riders cavorted around the small field out front, putting their horses through complicated manouvers. Maeglin remembered races over the plain of Tumladen and Glorfindel's bells jingling merrily among the hoofbeats, and he hung his head. The moment Celegorm showed his face, people had come streaming out to meet him, and now a crowd surrounded them, patting Huan, offering to take the horses, and chattering loudly. It was all too much, but Celegorm seemed in his element. 

“Hey, Carnë, how are those puppies?” he called.

“They're the biggest balls of fluff, you'd better come see them!”

“Tyelko! Guess what? I got two ducks with the same arrow last week!”

“Yeah? When you manage to get three I'll be impressed!”

Maeglin felt lost. He clutched his rats close, taking comfort in their friendly warmth. He'd never known this easy camaraderie with anyone, and watching Celegorm exchange hugs and handclasps and friendly shoulder punches only reminded him of how alone he truly was. After a moment though, Celegorm motioned him forward. “All right, all right. Everyone, I would like you to meet my kid.”

“I always said sleeping with a Vala was gonna get to you eventually!” someone laughed.

“They sure grow fast these days!”

“Aww, fuck off, the lot of you.” Celegorm was grinning. “This is Maeglin. He's gonna be our smith, so take good care of him, or you'll answer to me.”

“Maeglin…?”

“Irission,” Maeglin supplied.

 _“Our_ Irissë?” someone asked. Maeglin wondered what this place and these people had meant to her. She'd never liked to talk about Valinor. He hoped those memories were easier for her now.

“The very same,” said Celegorm.

“Then…that makes you Maeglin of Gondolin?”

 _It was a pleasant five minutes,_ Maeglin thought, nodding miserably.

“Huh. You actually brought us a _good_ smith.”

“What, like I don't know the difference?” Celegorm tried to look offended.

An elleth roughly pushed several others aside. “Hey, so, I have this broken knife I've held onto forever because it was my dad's; do you think you could fix it?”

“I can take a look,” Maeglin said shyly. “It depends on where the break is and what kind of repair you want done.”

“Wonderful!” She flashed him a huge smile.

“Tomorrow several of us are going after some elk that were spotted just south of here, and if we don't get one of them, I'm sure we'll find a deer. Wanna come?” The one asking was a Maia with little curling horns and feet like a goat’s.

Maeglin glanced at Celegorm, who gave him an encouraging smile. “Maybe?”

“Oh, do you want to see the forge?”

“No, wait!” someone interrupted. “Andras was using it to smoke a boar!”

“What?! I thought we agreed, no more smoking meat in the forge!”

“You mean you agreed,” someone else muttered. 

“Okay, new plan. You must be tired, how about we find some space for you to put your things and show you the bathhouse while Andras gets his fucking pig cleared out!” The last words were directed over her shoulder, presumably at Andras.

“It's a sucking pig, not a fucking one,” he smirked.

“Yeah, clear out your bad jokes too while you’re at it!”

Maeglin couldn't help laughing. It began to sink in that no one was going to make a big deal about who he was after all. As they led him inside, Celegorm fell in beside him and elbowed him in the ribs. “Told you so, didn't I?”

“You are insufferable.” Maeglin smiled.

*

Although Maeglin begged people not to bring him work until he’d had a chance to clean and organize the rough little forge and make a few of the many tools he lacked, projects quickly piled up. He complained about it to anyone who would listen, but secretly he got a little thrill whenever he walked past them. Everyone, it seemed, had something to be repaired, or was dangerously low on arrowheads, or simply must commission a little trinket for their sweetheart, even if it would take weeks and be made in steel or brass, since he had nothing else. They wanted him. They trusted him with the weapons that kept them alive and their family heirlooms alike. And he worked hard to deserve their trust.

He swept the chimney, replaced the dry-rotted leather of the bellows, sanded dings and scratches from the faces of hammer and anvil alike. He kept discovering tongs in strange places—one pair had evidently been used to knock down a wasp nest high overhead in the carved beams of Oromë's hall and abandoned up there when the wasps took it poorly. Another was being used in the bathhouse to pour water over hot rocks for steam. Maeglin crafted an elegant long-handled cup and took the tongs back to his smithy. 

As he finished arranging his space to his liking and settled into a routine, Maeglin found there were still days when he couldn't get out of bed and nights when he woke from dreams of torture, his chest tight with panic. But when he didn't show up to meals, someone would bring him a bowl of creamy porridge or fresh-baked bread and cheese, and sit and chat about who'd brought in the best game or made the biggest fool of themselves on horseback until Maeglin was finished eating or asked them to leave. He would snuggle with his rats and watch them play silly games, or drag himself with a blanket and a sketchbook outside to sit in the filtered light beneath his favorite tree and draw things to forge on better days. More and more, better days came, and he slowly waded through the onslaught of requests for his work.

One morning he looked up and saw Celegorm leaning against the doorway, watching him. “Come and hunt,” he said simply. Maeglin set aside the sketch he'd been converting to a full-scale layout on his workbench and followed his uncle. He'd been turning down the constant stream of invitations, feeling out of place among the loud, boisterous hunters, but with Celegorm there the rest didn't matter. Oromë himself rode with them, along with several others, and Maeglin's heart soared at the sound of the Vala’s horn. 

They separated a young stag from a herd grazing beneath ancient oaks, and gave chase, driving him toward two elves who’d gone ahead and lay in wait with spears. Coursing among the baying hounds, flying over fallen logs, Maeglin felt free and invincible, and when the stag fell, he joined in the wild cheer. Celegorm smeared blood over Maeglin’s cheeks, as Oromë had already done for him, and he kissed his forehead proudly. _This must be what Naneth missed enough to leave Gondolin,_ Maeglin thought. _Riding beneath limitless trees, laughing in the golden light. Being with people who know how to wrest life out of death, who understand that everything can't always be perfect and spotless and pure._

They feasted that night, and for the first time, Maeglin didn't feel the need to flee for the solitude of his smithy when Oromë passed around the ale. Everyone drank deep from a huge gilded horn that seemed bottomless, and the raucous, joyful singing began.

*

Lindissë came running into the forge one day as the leaves were taking on autumn hues and the air had turned crisp. “Maeglin! Aredhel’s on her way! She’ll be here soon!”

Maeglin set down the hot iron in his hand. “How much time do I have?”

“A couple hours, perhaps. You don't look happy. Do you not want to see your mom?”

“I…” He wetted his lips, thinking. He'd known this day would come, and whether he felt ready at any given time seemed more of a coin toss than to follow any logic.

“If you don't, you've got time to grab a bag and steal away, and no one will tell her where you've gone.”

“You'd do that for me?”

Celegorm silently slipped inside and saw that he'd already gotten the news.

“Of course,” she answered. “We take care of our own. You should know that by now.”

“But I'm not…surely she has a better claim to your friendship.”

“You can both be our friends, and we'll still help you. There's no reason you should have to endure a meeting you don't want. I think everyone’s had someone they couldn't see at some point. It's all right.”

Maeglin sighed. 

“I'll just tell everyone you aren't here, okay?”

She ran off, and Maeglin hesitated, staring at the half-formed skewer he'd been hammering. Celegorm approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right if today is not the day. You have later. You have next time. She'll understand.”

“I want to,” Maeglin whispered. “I don't know if I can.”

“Whatever you decide, I'll back you up. You just let me know.”

Maeglin nodded. “I need some time to think.”

The hours passed slowly. He kept working, positioning each hammer blow with deliberate care, letting the focus demanded by glowing steel blot out everything else. When he noticed his hands were shaking, he stopped and cleaned up, but he was no nearer his answer. He scooped up Mithril and Onyx from their spacious cage just outside in the shade, and immediately Mithril began nuzzling his ear. He'd realized they could often tell before he could that his distress was approaching the critical point when he needed to step away before his throat closed up and he lost himself to fear. Celegorm had taught him how to reinforce their worried nudges until he could rely upon them. He petted Mithril and gave him a pumpkin seed from the little store he kept in his pocket. 

Going back inside, he sat in a corner he kept clear near a window, curling up on himself and trying to breathe calmly. He was hidden here; the stones below him and surrounding him were safe and cool granite, and he ran his fingertips over the rough surfaces to keep himself grounded. On the high windowsill he'd arranged his sapphires, and the sun coming through them cast pools of blue light on the floor. He knew Eöl's words to him had been lies. He knew he could trust Celegorm and his judgment. But those words kept going around in his head relentlessly. _“She doesn't want you. She never wants to see you again. You made her life miserable.”_

“It's not true,” Maeglin whispered. He laid his head back against the wall. He was not going to run. He wasn’t. He'd managed to face Eöl and survive. He'd come back from the dead and managed somehow to stay. He smoothed Onyx's fur with trembling fingers. Maybe he should wash and find some clothes that weren't stained with soot. “I'll go in a minute,” he told the rats. “I should…should look nice when I see her.” But he didn't get up.

Celegorm poked his head in the door. Maeglin couldn't say how long he'd sheltered there. “Hey, Maeglin? You in here?”

“Over here,” Maeglin said softly.

“Oh. You okay?”

Maeglin shrugged.

“She's here. If you wanna see her.”

Maeglin closed his eyes and wished he knew what Vala he could pray to. “Yes.”

“I'll leave you guys to it, then.”

“No, wait! Don't go! Stay with me, please?”

“I thought…you’d want some time that's just family.”

“You're my family. Don't leave me.”

Celegorm smiled. “All right, then, I won't.”

He stepped outside and called to someone, and just like that, Aredhel was there, walking into his dim, sooty forge, dressed all in white like he remembered. _Oh Valar. I was wrong. I can't do this._ He hid his face against his knees and willed himself anywhere but here. A gentle hand alighted on his head, and he smelled the soft fragrance of lavender. “Lómion. I'm so proud of you.”

He shook his head, even as she pulled him into her arms. “I ruined everything.” He felt Celegorm's comforting presence as he sat beside him. 

“You’re here. You're alive, and I know that’s a victory.”

He gave up trying to disappear and let her hug him. “You shouldn't. You'll get your clothes dirty. I--I've been working all day—” 

“As if that matters. I've waited and hoped and waited some more, and I'm so happy to have you back.”

“You don't even know what I've done. What I didn't do. I am a traitor; they're right to hate me; I…” He'd looked up without meaning to, and he trailed off. He saw no hatred at all in her eyes.

“You can tell me, if you really want to. But Lómion, I love you, and there's nothing in Arda that could change that.”

He rested his head on her chest and wept.

“Do you remember when you came to the Halls?”

“As if in a dream. I remember you sang to me, and I couldn't speak for grief.”

“I didn't want to leave you. I'm so sorry I couldn't stay.”

“No. No. You had to leave when you had to. Please don't be sorry.” 

“I wanted to be there for you. In Gondolin. You had to fight through so much on your own.” Her hand on his cheek was warm and soothing. He cried harder, but he could feel already that it would be all right. Everything was going to be all right. He pressed closer against her and fully returned her embrace. “That’s it,” she murmured. “You aren't alone anymore. There's time for everything now.”

He reached for Celegorm and pulled him into the hug too. “I'm not alone at all.” Celegorm grinned and ruffled Maeglin's hair, then leaned over and kissed Aredhel on her cheek. Onyx climbed up to Maeglin's shoulder, and Aredhel's eyes widened in delight. 

“Who's your little friend there? Can I hold her?”

Maeglin smiled and wiped his very wet face. “This is Onyx, and she helped save my life.” He found, as he began his tale, that words came easier with the ones he loved.


End file.
